Po- White  Trash 

AND  OTHER 

One- Act"  Dramas 


EVELYN  GREENLEAF  SUTHERLAND 


PO'    WHITE     TRASH    AND 
OTHER  ONE-ACT  DRAMAS 


PO'  WHITE  TRASH 

AND    OTHER 

One-Act    Dramas 


BY 


EVELYN  GREENLEAF  SUTHERLAND 

CERTAIN  OF  THE  PLAYS  BEING  WRITTEN  IN 
COLLABORATION  WITH  EMMA  SHERIDAN- 
FRY  AND  PERCY  WALLACE  MACKAYE 


CHICAGO 

HERBERT   S.  STONE  AND  COMPANY 
MDCCCC 


COPYRIGHT    IgOO,    BY 
HERBERT    3.     STONE    &   CO 


Attention  is  called  to  the  fact  that  the 
following  plays  are  strictly  protected, 
by  copyright,  from  public  dramatic 
Performance .  professional  or  amateur. 
Permission  for  their  performance, 
on  a  moderate  royalty,  may  be  secured 
on  application  to  the  publishers. 


TO 

JOHN  PRESTON  SUTHERLAND 

i4WHO    MADE    THE    HAPP¥    SUN 
SHINE    WHERE     THESE    GREW" 

THEY    ARE    DEDICATED 
BY 

HIS   WIFE. 


W32977 


CONTENTS 

PAQK 

Po'  WHITE  TRASH 1 

IN  FAR  BOHEMIA 35 

THE  END  OF  THE  WAY 57 

A  COMEDIE  ROYALL 79 

A  BIT  OF  INSTRUCTION •  103 

A  SONG  AT  THE  CASTLE 125 

ROHAN  THE  SILENT 155 

AT  THE  BARRICADE 187 

GALATEA  OF  THE  TOY-SHOP 213 


PO'  WHITE  TRASH 

A    STUDY    OF    A    LITTLE-KNOWN 
PHASE    OF    AMERICAN    LIFE 


Po'  White  Trash  v 


DKAMATIS   PEKS01SME. 

SUKE   DUET    (of  the   class   known  as   "po'   white 

trash"). 

DEENT  DUET  (her  nephew). 
JUDGE  PAGE. 
DE.  CALHOUN  PAYNE. 
CAEOL  PAYNE  (his  daughter). 
SAL  HANKEES. 
ZEP  POON  )  _ 

MILLY  }  N^068' 

The  place  is  Georgia.  The  period  is  the  present. 
The  scene  is  the  exterior  of  Suke  Dury's  cabin,  on 
the  edge  of  Oloochee  Swamp.  The  time  is  late  after 
noon  of  a  mid -July  day. 

The  scene  is  a  dilapidated  cabin  exterior.  The 
cabin  is  set  at  an  angle,  R.  4-  It  is  of  logs,  ivitJi  a 
clay  chimney;  a  single  window  with  a  broken  shutter, 
half  open.  In  front  of  it,  a  rude  platform-like 

3 


4  Po'  White  Trash 

piazza.  A  rude  bench  on  stage;  in  front  of  it, 
toward  ft.  21.  A  banjo  is  lying  on  the  bench.  The 
stage  is  covered  with  a  whitish-yellow  cloth,  repre 
senting  bare  sand.  The  back  drop  a  stretch  of  flat 
sand,  dotted  with  clumps  of  coarse  green  grass;  here 
and  there,  a  tall,  dead,  fire-blackened  tree.  At  L.  3, 
a  mast-like,  blackened  tree-trunk,  draped  heavily 
with  moss.  Behind  it,  there  is  a  narrow  path, 
apparently  ending  with  the  sivamp.  From  L.  of 
stage,  extending  into  wings,  a  thick  matted  under 
growth  of  lush,  green,  swamp-like  bushes  and  plants, 
growing  taller  as  they  join  wings.  The  light  is  hot, 
intense,  yellow  sunlight;  almost  from  rise  of  curtain, 
however,  the  light  begins  to  soften  toward  dusk;  first 
growing  red,  then  lilac,  then  clear  violet-purple,  then 
dark  purple,  etc.  In  front  of  cabin  piazza,  R.  3,  a 
small  iron  pot,  full  of  red  coals  and  with  a  branding 
iron  stuck  down  into  it.  Curtain  music,  "Swanee 
River."  When  curtain  rises,  Zep  Poon  is  soundly 
asleep  under  tree,  L.  3.  He  is  a  burly  negro,  in 
tensely  black;  in  cotton-checked  shirt,  open  at  neck; 
cotton  overalls,  brogans,  above  which  his  naked  black 
ankles  show.  Beside  him  is  his  broad-brimmed, 
tattered  straw  hat.  In  the  silence  the  locusts  are 
heard,  intermittently  shrilling.  After  a  second  or 
two,  Zep  snores  heavily,  once  or  twice,  and  turns  on 
his  side,  without  waking;  then  snores  again.  Enter 
Sal  Hankers,  from  road  behind  cabin,  R.  back.  She 


Po'  White  Trash  5 

is  dressed  in  gaudy,  cheap  calico;  her  dress  being 
apparently  her  only  garment.  Her  face  and  hair  are 
of  a  uniform  clay -color.  She  carries  her  sun-bonnet 
dangling  from  its  string  on  her  arm.  As  she  comes 
down,  she  glances  indifferently  at  Zep.  She  seats 
herself  leisurely  on  bench,  R.  She  takes  from  her 
pocket  a  snuff-box  and  a  stick,  and  dips  the  stick 
into  the  box,  afterward  rubbing  it  on  her  teeth. 
After  a  pause. 

SAL.     Snke!     0  Suke! 

(There  is  again  silence.     Sal  fans  herself 
and  wipes  her  face  upon  her  apron.     The 
locusts  shrill  again  and  Zep  snores.) 
SAL.     Suke!     0  Suke  Dury!     0  Suke! 

(Suke  Dury  opens  door  of  cabin,  and  stands 
framed  in  it.  She  is  of  SaVs  type,  but  much 
more  vivid.  Her  hair  is  of  deep  red.  She 
has  a  rope  in  her  hand,  whose  broken  ends  she 
is  knotting  together.) 

SUKE.  Save  yo'  breath.  I  heard  yo\  But  the 
calf  had  split  his  rope  to  frazzles  an'  was  makin'  fo' 
the  swamp,  an'  I  had  to  ketch  him.  Swamps  ain't 
safe  pasturin'  for  calves. 

SAL.  (R.)  Ain't  safe  pasturin'  for  nohody,  when 
such  a  sun  nusses  copperheads  lively.  Look  at  that 
fool  nigger!  (Indicates  Zep.)  Snorin'  there  on  the 
edge  of  Oloochee  Swamp  as  if  snakes  wuz  as  friendly 


6  Po'  White  Trash 

company  as  skeeters.  Ah  reckon  if  a  copperhead 
cam'  out  a-visitin',  that  nigger  wouldn't  never  have 
the  trouble  of  wakin'  up. 

SUKE.  (Comes  down  C.)  Copperheads  don't 
come  a-visitin'  here.  Too  much  sense.  It  'ud  be  a 
safe  thing  fo'  all  sorts  o'  snakes,  ef  they'd  alwuz  kep' 
thar  distance  from  this  cabin. 

SAL.  Eeckon  the  swamp  things  'lowed  this  cabin 
wuz  theirn  by  right  o'  squattin'.  Plumb  twenty 
years  they  hed  it  to  theirselves,  while  you  'uns  was 
yon,  in  the  mountains,  an'  the  cabin  shet. 

SUKE.  Twenty  years  come  August.  It  wor  sun 
up,  nineteen  year  ago,  that  my  sister  Pen  an'  I  locked 
that  cabin  do'  behin'  us.  It  wor  sun-up,  when  my 
sister  Pen's  boy  an'  I  opened  that  do'  a  month  ago. 
But  the  swamp  things  hev  hed  a  chance  to  study  on 
one  thing  sence  we're  back  again, — an'  that  is,  whar 
Suke  Dury  bides  no  kind  o'  snake  don't  find  it 
healthy.  AH  the  snakes  in  Georgia  ain't  learnt  that 
yit ;  but  they  will ; — they  will ; — give  me  time. 

SAL.     Doctor  been  here  yet? 

SUKE.     What  d'yo'  know  'bout  Doctor's  comin'? 

SAL.  0  Luddy!  Luddy!  But  yo'  be  a  wild  cat! 
'Twuz  Miss  Carol  told  me  yo'  asked  her  paw  to  drap 
in  on  Drent  when  he  was  a-passin'.  Drent  po'ly? 

SUKE.  (C.)  I  don'  know.  But  I'm  feared  o' 
him.  Gord!  He's  too  like  his  maw!  He's  too  like 
his  maw !  She  went  sudden,  yo'  know,  my  sister  Pen. 


Po'  White  Trash  7 

One  day  she  said,  "Suke,  I've  got  a  mis'ry  in  my 
side!" — an  her  face  went  gray  as  that  moss.  .  .  . 
Next  day, — we  buried  her. 

SAL.     (R.)     Drent  hen  a-havin'  a  miz'ry? 

SUKE.  He  don'  say  so.  But  las'  week,  one  day 
he'd  been  a-singin'  for  Miss  Carol,  he  come  into  the 
cabin, — an'  his  face  hit  went  all  gray, — gray  as  that 
moss,  gray  as — God-a-mighty !  I  thought  'twuz  my 
heart  a-stoppin'  'stid  o'  his.  So  I  asked  Miss  Carol 
would  she  ask  her  paw  to  look  at  Drent,  when  he 
wuz  a-passin'. 

SAL.  Folks  say  as  daddyless  young  'uns  is  most 
always  death-struck  young. 

SUKE.  Who's  sayin'  daddyless  young  'uns?  Yo' 
chitterin'  fool!  Who 

SAL.  (Rises  and  ties  on  bonnet  very  deliberately.) 
Thar  ye  be,  wild-cattin'  agin !  I'm  moughty  puzzled, 
yo'  sister  Pen's  heart  didn't  stop  fo'  it  did,  with  yo' 
wild-cattin'  round  from  sun-up  twell  dark.  Daddy- 
less  young  'uns?  D'ye  spose  folks  has  forgot  when 
you-all  clared  out,  nineteen  year  ago,  yo'  sister  Pen 
kerried  a  daddyless  young  'un  with  her?  (Crosses 
toward  L.)  What  of  it?  Happens  to  plenty!  Po' 
white  trash  hasn't  no  business  with  sech  eyes  as  Pen 
Dury's  were, — eyes  big  an'  trustin'  as  a  baby  calf's ! 

SUKE.  "  Ef  I  don'  kill  yo',  it's  because  I've  got 
somebody  else  to  settle  with  first !  (Suke  turns  in  to 
cabin.) 


8  Po'  White  Trash 

SAL.  Quit  wild-cattin' !  Suke!  0  Suke!  Tell 
Dr.  Payne  ef  he  be  so  bleegin'  as  to  stop  up  on  my 
oP  man,  when  he's  passin'  home?  My  oP  man  he 
said  Jim  Wash  was  a  liar,  yestiddy;  an'  Jim  Wash '11 
be  at  the  sto'  to-day,  when  my  oP  man  gits  thar.  I 
reckon  my  oP  man '11  be  needin'  the  doctor  moughty 
bad,  after  he's  met  up  with  Jim  Wash ! 

(Sal  turns  to  exit  as  she  came,  behind  cabin, 
R.  lack;  she  comes  violently  into  contact  with 
Hilly,  who  is  just  entering.  Suke  turns  at 
the  collision  and  Hilly'' s  noisy  exclamations. 
Hilly  is  a  very  Uack  young  negress,  neatly 
dressed,  and  wearing  a  notably  pretty  and 
fashionable  hat.) 

MILLY.  Name  o' Jerusalem!  Huccum  yo' knock 
de  bruf  out'n  a  pusson  dat-a-way! 

(Exit  Suke  into  cabin.) 

SAL.  Yo'  breath '11  last  longer,  ef  yo'  keep  out'n 
yo'  betters'  way! 

MILLY.  Betters!  (Exit  Sal.  Hilly  backs  down 
stage,  calling  after  her.)  Name  o'  Palestine! 
Betters!  Talkin'  to  a  quality  nigger  dat  po'  white 
trash  wuz  her  betters!  Po'  white  trash!  (As  she 
backs,  she  stumbles  over  Zep,  who  sits  up,  rubbing 
his  head  bewilderedly .)  Name  o'  glory!  Jordan  am 


Po'   White  Trash  9 

a  hard  road  to  trabbel  dis  ebenin'  for  sho' !  Huccum 
dat 

ZEP.  (Striking  out  viciously.)  Git  out  o'  this, 
yo'  dog-gone  ol'  mule! 

MILLY.     (Dodging  Uow.)     Mule! 

ZEP.  (Struggling  to  his  feet  and  bowing  and 
ducking  obsequiously,  with  flourishes  of  his  hat.}  0, 
Miss  Carol,  I  done  ax  yo'  pardon.  I  done  reckoned 
my  ol'  mule  wuz  kickin'  me  to  wake  up,  lak  he  do, 
when  he  done 

MILLY.  Fus'  de  mule,  an'  den  Miss  Carol! 
Habn't  yo'  no  eyes,  yo'  fool  nigger  Zep  Poon,  or  have 
de  sun  done  scotched  'em  out? 

ZEP.  (Dazed.)  Dat  ar  Miss  Carol's  hat!  I  done 
swar  dat  ar  Miss  Carol's  hat!  Huccum  Miss  Carol 
she  done  ain't  under  dat  hat? 

MILLY.  Miss  Carol  she'll  nebber  be  under  dat  hat 
no  mo'.  Miss  Carol  done  gib  me  dat  hat  fo'  a 
plightin'  gif ' ! 

ZEP.  Plightin' gif '!  FoV  Name  ob  Israel !  Ef 

yo  done  gone  plight  yo'self (Takes  out  razor  from 

overalls.) 

MILLY.  Yo'  done  gone  crunkled!  'Tain't  me 
wot's  plighted.  But  ef  'twuz  me  'twouldn't  be  to  no 
nigger  dat  don'  know  me  from  a  mule!  Miss  Carol's 
done  plighted 

ZEP.  It's  Marsr  George  Payne!  It's  de  Jedge's 
son!  I  ben  a-studyin'  huccome  Marsr  George  done 


io  Po'  White  Trash 

quit  coon-huntin'  Sundays !  He  done  gone  huntin' 
'nother  kind  o'  coon!  (Chuckles.)  Well,  I's  done, 
fo'afac'! 

MILLY.  Ya'as.  Miss  Carol  she  done  come  to  de 
Jedge's  to-day,  fo'  Marse  George  to  show  her  to  we- 
all ;  and  all  de  quality  done  be  hid  to  the  Jedge's  this 
ebenin',  and  dere'll  be  de  bigges'  doin's,  and  de 
bigges'  dancin',  an'  de  bigges'  singin',  and  de  bigges' 
eatin'  an'  de  bigges'  drinkin' 

ZEP.  (Mechanically  echoing  her  ecstatic  tone.) 
De  bigges'  eatin',  and  de  bigges'  drinkin',  an' — 'pears 
like  ter  me  de  Jedge  done  say  I  wuz  to  go  up  to  de 
place  dis  day.  Ya'as ;  de  Jedge  he  sutney  did  say 

MILLY.  Ya'as,  he  sutney  did  say  go  to  the  place 
an'  clean  de  well;  an'  whar's  de  well?  An'  whar 
wuz  2/0'  9  Look  at  yoM  An' it's  plumb  sundown! 
Clean  de  well ! 

ZEP.     De  Jedge  done  know  hit  my  day  fer  plowin' ! 

MILLY.  Day  fo'  plowin'!  Day  fo'  snorin'!  I 
done  hyerd  de  Jedge  cussin'  'bout  dat  well,  this 
ebenin'  after  dinner.  He  done  say  yo'  hadn't  done 
no  wuk  fo'  a  week,  an'  he  done  'fraid  yo'  done  got 

'ligion ! 

(Suke  enters  from  cabin  and  stands  looking 
out  toward  the  swamp ,  shading  her  eyes  with 
her  hand.) 

ZEP.  Got  'ligion!  Name  o'  de  Lawd!  Got 
'ligion  befo'  Christmas!  I 


Po'  White  Trash  II 

SUKE.     Hold  your  tongues ! 

(There  is  a  pause  of  a  second.} 
SUKE.     Wuzn't   that  my  boy  Drent's  whistle  off 
yon,  in  de  swamp? 

(Another  pause;  a  soft,  flute-like  tremulo 
whistle  comes  faintly  from  the  direction  of  the 
swamp.} 

MILLY.     I  reckon,  Suke, 


SUKE.     Dury's  my  name — to  niggers ! 

(Milly  tosses  her  head  and  moves   toward 
back  L.) 

ZEP.  (With  a  flourishing  bow.)  I  reckon,  Miss 
Dury,  dat  wuzn't  Drent.  Eeckon  'twuz  a  mockin' 
bird.  Moughty  puzzlin'  fo'  sho'  to  tell  Drent  f'om 
a  mockin'  bird  when  he's  whistlin' ;  an'  when  Drent 
sing,  it's  moughty  puzzlin'  fo'  to  tell  him  f'om  a 
angel ! 

MILLY.  (Turning.)  Ya'as.  I  reckon  dat's  why 
Miss  Carol  she  sent  me  fo'  to  fetch  Drent  to  de 
Jedge's  place  dis  ebenin'  fo'  to  sing  fo'  de  quality. 

SUKE.  Carol  Payne  sent  yo'  to  fetch  my  boy  to 
go  up  an'  sing  for  quality  folks, — up  to  the  Jedge's, 
whar  she's  a-visitin'? 

MILLY.  (With  a  mock  curtsey.)  Dat's  hit,  Miss 
Dury! 


12  Po'  White  Trash 

SUKE.  Then  tote  yo'self  back  an'  tell  Miss  Carol 
w'en  she  wants  Drent  Dury  to  sing  fo'  her,  she 
carn't  send  no  niggers — she  kin  com  herself!  Tell 
her  I  said  so!  (Exit  into  cabin.) 

MILLY.     De  sassiness  ob  po'  white  trash 

(Dr.  Payne  enters  from  behind  cabin,  R. 
back.  He  is  fat  and  jovial;  he  carries  his 
saddle-bags  across  his  arm.) 

DE.  P.  An'  the  impudence  o'  niggers!  Gloryin' 
round  in  that  hat  I  paid  fo'teen  good  dollars  fo', 
down  in  Atlanta! 

(Exit  Hilly,  bridling,  L.  back.  Dr.  P.  seats 
himself  on  bench,  puffing  and  blowing;  tosses 
down  his  saddle-bags;  fans  himself  with  Pan 
ama  hat.  Zep  approaches  him,  bowing  and 
scraping.) 

DE.  P.  Lucky  it's  dusking  down!  Plaggon  it! 
If  that  sun  had  stayed  up  much  longer,  I  should  have 
had  to  be  taken  home  in  one  of  my  own  bottles! 
(Noticing  Zep.)  Well,  well,  what  do  you  want, 
confound  you? 

ZEP.  Ya'as  sah.  Please  Doctor,  sah,  ef  yo'  could 
give  me  a  little  sumpin'  for  a  pow'ful  po'ly  feelin' 

DE.  P.  What  is  it,  eh.  A  miz'ry  in  yo'  back,  or 
a  sinkin'  in  yo'  head,  or  a  conjure  all  over  yo'? 
Speak  out ! 


Po'  White  Trash  13 

ZEP.  Ef  yo'  please,  Doctor,  sah,  I'se  been 
suffer  in'  pow'fnl  dese  days,  wid  water  on  my 
stomach,  sah! 

DR.  P.  Water  on  yo'  stomach,  eh? — water  on — 
(Bursts  into  chuckling  laughter.)  Well,  it  must 
he  sufferin',  fo'  a  fac',  to  introduce  water  to  a 
stomach  tanned  with  tanglefoot  whisky! — Here! 
(Fumbles  in  pocket  and  tosses  him  a  coin.)  That's 
the  prescription  you're  after,  I  reckon,  eh? 

ZEP.  De  Lawd  bless  an'  fumigate  yo',  Marsr 
Doctor,  sah, — de  Lawd  blesa  an'  fumigate  yo'! 

(Exit  Zep  behind  cabin,  lack  R.) 

DR.  P.  Well,  with  niggers  an'  po'  white  trash,  a 
doctor  does  have  a  cheerful  time,  fo'  a  fac'!  .  .  . 
What's  that  Drent  Dnry  a-doin',  keepin'  me  waitin'? 
0 !  Drent  Dury-!  0  Drent ! 

(Suke  enters  from  cabin.) 

SUKE.  Drent  ain't  hyar,  Doctor  Payne,  sir.  I'm 
done  heart-sick  that  he  don'  come,  sir,  not  since  last 
night. 

DR.  P.  Ain't  here?  Sends  fo'  a  doctor,  an'  ain't 
here?  Well,  fo'  a  fac' ! 

(Rises  in  wrath  and  begins  to  pick  up  his 
saddle-bags.) 

SUKE.  0  ef  yo'  please,  Dr.  Payne,  sir!  Drent  he 
must  be  home  right  soon.  He's 


14  Po'  White  Trash 

DE.  P.  He's  a  worthless  young  nubbin' — that's 
what  Drent  Dury  is!  Wants  a  doctor,  does  he? — 
What  fo'?  Not  his  lungs,  I'll  swear !  Didn't  I  hear 
him  singin'  las'  night,  passin'  out  a-coon-huntin', — 
singin'  like  a  low-down,  dirty,  no  'count  little — little 
cherubim  and  seraphim?  Singin'  like — (Brent's  voice 
is  heard  outside  singing  the  first  verse  of  "My  Old 
Kentucky  Home.") — singin'  like — that,  confound 
him!  Now  who'd  say  that  a  busy  doctor 'd  be  fool 
enough  to  waste  his  time 

(Drent  enters.     He  is   dressed    in  ragged 

brown  jean  trousers,  a  dull  blue  shirt,  open  at 

.  the  throat,  and  a  ragged  hat.     He  carries  a 

shot-gun.     A  dilapidated  game-lag  is  slung 

across  him.     He  moves  listlessly  and  is  pale.) 

DR.  P.  Fool  enough  to  waste  his  time 

huntin'  up 

DRENT.  Why,  I  reckon  anybody'd  say  so,  that 
knowed  yo',  Doctor. 

(Suke  goes  down  to  meet  Drent.  Under 
pretense  of  talcing  off  his  game-bag  to  examine 
it  for  game,  she  caresses  him,  with  awkward 
tenderness.) 

SUKE.  Made  up  yo'  mind  to  steer  in  for  some 
vittles  at  last,  did  yo',  yo'  louty  young  vagabond? 
(Holds  up  game-bag.)  Empty,  I  swar!  Empty  as 


Po'  White  Trash  15 

yo'  fool  head!  (She  carries  his  gun  and  game-bag 
up  to  the  porch.  He  sits  on  step  of  piazza^  listless 
and  sullen.) 

DR.  P.  That's  a  woman!  That's  a  woman! 
Honin'  her  heart  out  for  a  fellow  when  he's  off, 
and  then  givin'  him  the  devil  the  minute  he  heaves 
in  sight ! 

DRENT.  (To  SuJce.)  It's  yo'  own  fault.  Yo' 
know  I'd  stay  away  while  that  iron  was  heatin'  thar. 
I'm  no  butcher  an'  no  calf-brander,  an'  I  won't 
stay  whar  I'm  hounded  to  do  it. 

SUKE.  I'll  do  the  hrandin'  then.  (Takes  iron 
from  pot.)  Yo've  the  heart  of  a  calf  yo'self !  (Exit 
behind  cabin.) 

DRENT.  Mebbe.  An'  mebbe  the  skin  of  a  calf; 
an'  mebbe  that's  how  I  kin  guess  how  a  brandin'  iron 
feels. 

DR.  P.     Dut  yo'  don't  know  how  a  coon  feels,  eh? 

DRENT.     Don't  I? 

DR.    P.     "Well,    yo'    shoot    'em,    all    th'   same. 

DREKT.  Do  I?  Whar's  the  coon,  Doctor? 
(Shows  empty  game-bag.) 

DR.  P.     Didn't  see  a  coon,  then,  eh? 

DRENT.     0,  I  saw  a  coon,  right  enuf ! 

DR.   P.     Too  lazy  to  hunt  him,  then,  eh? 

DRENT.  Hunt  him?  Hunt? — 0 !  Name  o'  judg 
ment.  (Bursts  into  a  long,  low,  lazy  laugh.)  Hunt ! 
Doctor,  there  isn't  one  of  the  boys  that  went  coon- 


1 6  Po'  White  Trash 

huntin'  las'  night,  that  ken  set  down  after  he's  got 
up,  or  git  up  after  he's  set  down!  Land!  I  reckon 
the  hoys '11  remember  last  night's  hunt!  'Twuz  the 
sort  o'  a  hunt  they  wouldn't  a-got  out'n  any  coon  but 
me!  (Laughs  again.) 

DB.  P.  Any  coon  but You're  going  loony! 

(Sits  on  piazza.) 

DKENT.  P'raps  you'll  say  loony,  Doctor,  fo'  a 
fac',  when  I've  told  yo'.  It  wuz  this-a-way.  Me  an' 
Frazzles, — Frazzles  is  my  dog,  yo'  know,  Doctor,  jes' 
an  ornery  no- 'count  yeller  dog  like  me, — but  he  kin 
f oiler  his  master;  an'  when  he's  tol'  to  hoi'  on,  dat 
dog  he  don'  let  go.  Well,  me  and  Frazzles  wuz  way 
ahead  o'  the  other  dogs,  an'  we  see  the  moss  on  an 
old  pine  swing — swing — lak  the  wind  struck  it ;  but 
there  warn't  no  wind.  An'  I  says  to  Frazzles,  "Sh!" 
an'  he  sh'd.  An'  we  crep'  along — still  as  a  copper 
head  creeps — crep'  and  crep'  along  to  that  there 
tree;  an'  Frazzles'  eyes  got  bigger  an'  yallerer,  an'  his 
back  jes'  quivered  lak  as  if  every  hair  hed  come  alive, 
but  Frazzles  never  yipped  a  yip.  .  .  .  An'  we  crep' 
— an'  we  come  to  the  ol'  pine — an'  we  peeked  up 
through  the  moss, — and  thar  was  the  coon.  Lord! 
Doctor, — thar  was  the  coon, — crouchin'  and  scrough- 
lin'  together,  dead  sick  with  the  smell  o'  the  dog, — 
a-crouchin'  an'  a-scroughlin'  an'  a-lookin' — an'  a- 
lookin  .  .  .  An  Frazzles  says, — 'ithout  ever  yippin' 
a  yip — "Throw  him  down ! — throw  him  down !" — An' 


Po'  White  Trash  17 

I  says,  "You  bet!" — And  I  shinned  up  that  tree,  a- 
grippin'  my  gun — an'  I  got  on  the  branch  fair  below 

him, — and  then 

DR.  P.     Well!     Well!     And  then 

DEENT.  An'  then,  Doctor,  I  saw  that  coon's 
eyes. — I  saw  that  coon's  eyes.  Doctor,  I — I  never 
saw  a  coon's  eyes  befo'.  I  reckon — I  reckon — thar 
wouldn't  be  so  much  hurtin'  done  in  this  world  ef 
jes'  befo'  yo'  hurted  yo'  saw  the  thing's  eyes!  An'  I 
looked  at  him — an  he  looked  at  me, — an'  his  eyes 
said,  "Be  yo'  goin'  to  kill  me?  Be  yo'  goin'  to  kill 
me?"  Thar  worn't  no  trees — no  sky — no  nothin' — 
jes'  only  that  coon's  eyes.  "It's  on'y  cowards  kill 
what  can't  fight,"  they  says.  "It's  on'y  devils  kill 
fo'  fun,"  they  says.  Everythin'  thet  hed  ever  been 
'fraid — an'  I've  been  'fraid! — looked  out  o'  that 
coon's  eyes.  Everythin'  thet  hed  ever  got  beat, — 
an'  I've  got  beat! — looked  out  of  that  coon's  eyes. 
Everythin'  that  ever  been  hurt, — and  God-a-mighty ! 
I've  been  hurt! — looked  out  of  that  coon's  eyes. 
"Be  ye  goin'  to  kill  me?"  they  sez.  "Be  ye  goin'  to 
kill  me?"  An'  I  flinged  my  gun's  far's  she'd  flew, 
an'  I  sez,  "No,  yo'  mean,  scared,  hunted  critter,  yo'! 
I'll  be  damned  if  I  kill  yo'!" 
DE.  P.  Yo'  blamed  little  fool! 

(Dr.  Payne  wipes  Ms  eyes  surreptitiously, 
and  Hows    his    nose    ostentatiously.      Drent 


1  8  Po'  White  Trash 

takes  up  Ms  banjo  and  idly  strums  as  lie,  talks, 
some  bars  of  "My  Old  Kentucky  Home."  Dr. 
Payne  sways  and  beats  time  to  it,  uncon 
sciously;  stopping  himself  whenever  he  re 
members  it,  with  evident  irritation;  but 
occasionally,  despite  himself,  humming  a  word 
or  two  of  the  song  in  a  grumbling  bass.) 


But  yo'  see,  Doctor,  the  boys  done  hev 
to  have  their  hunt;  so,  wal,  Frazzles  he  done  folio* 
me,  coon  or  no  coon;  an'  the  other  dogs,  they  done 
folio'  Frazzles,  scent  or  no  scent;  and  the  boys  they 
done  follow  the  dogs  .  .  .  an'  they  had  huntin'  a- 
plenty,  Doctor,  they  did,  fo'  a  fac'  ! 

DE.  P.  And  whar  was  the  good  of  it  all,  you 
"possum  an'  de  coonl  possum  an'  decoon!"  (Hum 
ming  words  of  song.)  Doggone  it,  will  yo'  stop  that 
banjo?  .  .  .  Whar  was  the  good  - 

DEENT.  Good?  Why,  Doctor,  the  coon  done  got 
his  life  —  an'  the  boys  done  got  their  hunt  —  an'  I,  —  I 
done  found  out  there  was  one  thing  on  this  yearth 
mizzibler  than  po'  white  trash! 

DE.  P.  "By  de  meadow,  de  hill,  and  de  --  " 
(Humming  words  of  song.)  Damn  it  all,  will  you 
either  quit  that  song  or  sing  it? 

(Drent  sings,    lightly  and  idly,  but  with 
searching  pathos,  the  words: 


Po'  White  Trash  19 

We'll  hunt  no  mo>  fo*  de  possum  an*  de  coon, 

By  de  medder,  de  hill  art  de  sho'; 

We'll  sing  no  mo1  by  the  light  o'  the  moon 

On  de  bench  by  de  oV  cabin  do1; 

De  days  go  by,  lak  a  shadow  on  de  heart, 

Wid  sorrow  whar  once  was  delight; 

The  time  hit  come  w^en  oV  friends  dey  hev  to  part; 

Den  my  oV  Kentucky  home,  good-night!) 

DR.  P.  (Who  has  listened  with  much  emotion.) 
Listen  to  yo'!  Listen  to  yo'!  With  a  voice  that 
pulls  the  mockin'  birds  out  o'  the  swamp,  and  sets  an 
ol'  fool  doctor  sloppin' over  at  both  eyes!  With  a 
voice  that  might  make  yo'  the  foremost  citizen  o' 
Georgia,  sir, — the  foremost  citizen  o'  Georgia!  (Ris 
ing.)  An'  then  look  at  yo'!  Look  at  yo'!  What 
are  yo',  sir?  What  are  yo'? 

DRENT.  Po'  white  trash,  I  reckon,  Doctor, — jes 
po'  white  trash! 

DR.  P.  Po'  white  trash !  When  if  yo'  had  one 
blink  of  honest  ambition,  there  isn't  a  man  of  us 
wouldn't  be  proud  to  give  yo'  a  leg  up!  When  if 
yo'  had  one  ounce  of  man  in  yo',  yo'd  stand,  in 
three  years,  where  nobody 'd  remember  that  yo'  never 
knew  yo'  daddy, — (Drent  starts,  laying  down  his 
banjo)  and  nobody'd  remember  that  yo'  mother 

DREXT.  (Rising  to  his  feet.)  Hold  it  there,  ef 
yo'  please,  Doctor.  What  my  maw  was,  I  reckon  I 


20  Po'  White  Trash 

know  better'n  yo' ;  an'  what  my  maw  is,  I  reckon 
neither  of  us  '11  ever  know,  unless  we're  better  men! 

DR.  P.  (After  a  pause,  impetuously  gripping  his 
hand.)  Dury,  I  ask  yo'  pardon! 

DRENT.  Never  mind,  Doctor.  Of  co'se  there 
ain't  nothin'  po'  white  trash  cayn't  hear.  Only  I 
reckon — I  reckon — thar's  some  things  quality  folks 
cayn't  say. 

(He  staggers  dizzily  for  a  moment,  with  his 
hand  to  his  heart.) 

DR.  P.  (Throwing  his  arm  around  Drent.) 
What  are  yo'  at,  boy?  What's  wrong? 

DRENT.  (Releasing  himself  and  laugliing  con 
fusedly.)  Aw,  nothin',  Doctor,  nothin'!  Only  fo' 
one  fool  minute  everythin'  seemed  duskin' — an' 
stoppin' — but  I'm  all  right  now — all  right.  (Takes 
up  banjo  and  tremulously  tunes  it. ) 

DR.  P.  Everything  dusking  and  stopping,  eh? 
Drop  that  fool  thing!  (Drent  lays  down  banjo.) 
Give  me  yo'  wrist!  (Counts  pulse.)  Eh? — Hm-m. 

So  that's  what  yo'  aunt Keep  still  a  minute! 

(He  kneels  beside  Drent,  with  his  ear  over  Drent's 
heart.  Then  he  rises,  with  a  face  of  serious  concern, 
and  begins  to  fumble  in  his  saddle-bags.)  Whar's  my 
stethoscope?  Day  of  wrath!  Whar's  my  stethoscope? 
Damned  if  I  don't  believe  that  Simmons  baby  got  it! 
I  gave  it  to  him  to  play  with,  to  stay  his  yawp, 


Po'  White  Trash  21 

while (He  takes  a  phial  from  Ms  medicine 

case.)  Put  out  yo'  tongue!  (Standing  in  front  of 
Drent,  he  lets  a  drop  or  two  fall  from  the  phial  on 
his  tongue.)  Now,  stay  whar  yo'  are, — d'ye  hear? — 
till  I  come  back  with  that  stethoscope.  I  won't  be 
half  an  hour.  Stay  whar  yo'  are,  I  say!  Stay  whar 
yo'  are,  an'  keep  quiet.  Don't  let  anything  excite 
yo' 

DKENT.  'Tain't  a  moughty  excitin'  neighbor 
hood,  Doctor! 

DE.  P.  So  much  the  better.  I'll  be  back  in  half 
an  hour  an'  go  through  you  good !  (He  bustles  down 
stage;  and  then  comes  hesitatingly  back,  lays  his  hand 
on  Drenfs  shoulder  and  holds  out  the  other  hand 
to  him.)  Yo'  don't  bear  grudge  to  an  old  fool's 
yawp,  eh,  lad? 

DRENT.  Lord,  Doctor,  ef  everybody  yawped  your 
tune,  this  world'd  play  good  music! 

DR.  P.  Quiet's  the  word,  then,  yo'  young  rascal! 
If  I  find  you've  moved  a  foot  from  that  gallery,  I'll 
give  yo'  a  dose  yo'll  taste  fo'  a  month ! 

(He  bustles  out,  behind  cabin,  R.  lack.  It 
is  noiv  soft,  violet  dusk.  A  few  great  bright 
stars  shine,  back,  above  the  sandy  levels. 
From  the  swamp  there  comes,  eerie  and  minor, 
the  long,  shivering  cry  of  the  night  owl. 
Drent  picks  upon  his  banjo  again,  with  a  list- 


22  Po'  White  Trash 

less,  tired  sigh.  He  softly  hums  "Lorena," 
'  ''picking'* '  a  light  accompaniment.  After  a  few 
seconds  pause,  enter  Suke  from  cabin,  the 
branding  iron  in  her  hand.) 

SUKE.  By  the  time  I  ketched  that  fool  calf, 
the  iron  wuz  cold.  (She  looks  at  Brent,  wistfully. ) 
Ain't  yo'  comin'  in  fo'  a  hite  o'  corn  pone,  Honey? 
(Puts  iron  into  pot.) 

DEEKT.     Naw,  Aunt  Suke. 

SUKE.  No'  fo'  a  mug  o'  coffee,  Honey?  Hit's 
moughty  good  an'  strong. 

DEENT.     Not  now,  Aunt  Suke. 

SUKE.  Ef  yo'  don't  eat  nothin',  yo'  no  'count 
critter,  huccome  yo'll  have  a  voice  to  go  sing  fo'  the 
quality? 

(Carol  Payne  enters  from  the  swamp-path, 
L.   3.      Suke  sees  her  and    straightens    up 


DEENT.     What    quality  folks  he  thar'   a-honin' 
arter  my  singin'? 

CAEOL.     I  reckon,  Drent,  she  means  me. 

(Drent  springs  to  his  feet,  snatching  off  his 
hat.) 

DEENT.      Name  o'   Gawd!      Whar'd    yo'    come 
from,  Misa  Carol? 


Po    White  Trash  23 

CAROL.  Down  the  swamp  path  hyar.  An'  I 
wished  I  hadn't  when  I  saw  how  fast  'twas  duskin'. 

DRENT.  Fo'  de  Lord's  sake,  Miss  Carol,  don'  do 
sech  loony  things  no  mo*.  De  swamp  path! 

(He  unconsciously  presses  his  hand  against 
his  heart.  Exit  Suke  into  cabin,  after  a  long 
unfriendly  stare  at  Carol.) 


CAROL.  (Crosses  R.  toward  bench.)  The  swamp 
path's  so  much  shorter,  Drent! 

DRENT.  Short  ain't  always  safe,  Miss  Carol. 
Now  it's  July,  thet  thar  swamp's  just  rank  with 
copperheads.  Ah  don'  folio'  thet  path  no  mo' ! 

CAROL.  (Seating  herself  on  bench.)  Well,  you 
shall  take  me  back  to  the  Page  place  by  just  what 
path  yo'  like,  Drent,  if  you'll  promise  to  sing  for  me, 
when  we  get  there. 

DRENT.  Sing  fo'  yo'?  Do  yo'  mean  that,  Miss 
Carol? 

CAROL.  Of  course  I  mean  it.  I'm  going  to  show 
— to  show  some  people  at  the  Page  place  that  I'm  not 
to  be  laughed  at  when  I  say  yo'  can-  put  mo'  honey 
in  one  sung  line  than — some  folks — can  in  a  week's 
pretty  speeches. 

DRENT.    Yo'  said  that — o'  my  singin' — Miss  Carol? 

CAROL.     And  I  meant  it,  Drent.     Ever  since  yo' 


24  Po'  White  Trash 

sang  that  song  fo'  me  and  paw,  that  Sunday  night 
out  here  in  the  moonlight 

(He  catches  up  Ms  banjo  as  if  in  a  trance, 
Ms  eyes  fixed  passionately  on  her  face,  and 
bursts  into  the  song — 

Her  brow  is  like  the  snow  drift, 
Her  throat  is  like  the  swan, 
And  her  face  is  e'en  the  fairest 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on; 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on, 
And  she's  all  the  world  to  me, 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I  would  lay  me  down  and  die  !) 

CAKOL.     Yes, — like  that!     Like  that! 

DEENT.  Miss  Carol,  I'd  sing  fo'  yo'  like  that, 
f ' om  moonrise  twell  sun-up.  Miss  Carol,  ef  yo'  asked 
me  to  sing  when  I  was  a-lyin'  under  the  swamp-grass, 
I  reckon  my  voice  would  pull  my  dead  lips  open! 
Wen  yo5  says,  "Sing,"  I  feel  as  the  mockin'  birds 
feel,  when  the  big,  sof  wind  lifts  then-  wings,  and 
somethin'  in  it  melts  way  down  into  'em — 0,  so  sweet ! 
so  sweet! — an'  they  know  that  it's  the  spring! 
(Frightened  at  his  vehemence,  Carol  rises  and  stands 
facing  him,  as  he  rushes  on. )  But  0 !  Miss  Carol ! 
Yo'  don'  mean  yo'  want  me  to  sing  to  yo'  under  no 
roof.  I  couldn't  do  it,  Miss  Carol!  I  couldn't  do 


Po'  White  Trash  25 

it  no  more  than  the  mockin'  bird  sings  when  yo' 
cage  him!  Gimme  jes'  the  moonlight  an'  the  stars — 
an'  yo' — ?/#' 

(Carol  crosses  L.  She  speaks  timidly  and 
bewilder  edly. ) 

CAEOL.  But  yo'  cayn't  expect  all  the  other  folks, 
Drent,  to  come  outside — in  the  night  air, 

DRESTT.     The — other — folks? 

CAKOL.  Yes,  yes;  the  other  folks!  Don't  yo' 
understand  that  I'm  askin'  yo'  to  come  up  to  the 
Page  place  to  sing  at  my  pledgin'  party, — my 
pledgin'  to  George  Page,  the  Judge's  son? 

DRENT.  Yo' — pledgin' — yo'  an'  George  Page — 
Naw!  I  didn't  understand!  1  won't  sing!  I  won't 
sing!  Let  him  sing  for  yo'— let  Mm  sing — damn 
him! 

(He  throws  down  his  banjo  and  buries  his 
face  in  his  bent  arm,  against  the  piazza-post. ) 

CAROL.  I  wouldn't  have  you  sing — now.  How 
dare  you?  I  was  a  fool  to  come ;  George  told  me  I 
shouldn't  come,  and  that's  why  I  came,  I  reckon. 
But  it's  fo'  the  last  time,  Drent  Dury! 

(As  she  moves  toward  the  swamp-path,  Drent 
suddenly  starts  erect;  and  after  listening  a 
second,  leaps  tigerishly  toward  her.) 


26  Po'  White  Trash 

DRENT.    Come  back  hyar !    Come  back  hyar,  I  say ! 
CAROL.     He's  crazy! 

(She  starts  in  terror  into  the  swamp  path. 
Drent  leaps  into  it  ahead  of  her;  and  flings 
her,  very  roughly,  far  toward  centre  of  stage. 
He  is  hidden  from  sight  in  the  wings.  Carol 
bursts  into  a  passion  of  terrified  crying,  hold 
ing  her  arm  where  Drent  clutched  it.) 

CAROL.  0!  He's  crazy!  0!  He'll  kill  me!  He 
hurt  me  so!  He  hurt  me  so!  (Tremblingly  puts  up 
sleeve  to  look  at  arm.)  0,  what  shall  I  do!  What 
shall  I 

(Enter  Judge  Page  from  lack  R.;  an  erect, 
strikingly  handsome  and  dignified  man  of 
forty-five.  Carol,  with  a  cry  of  joyful  relief, 
flings  herself  into  his  arms.) 

CAROL.  0!  I'm  so  thankful!  0  Judge  Page, 
I'm  so  thankful! 

JUDGE.  (Soothing  her.)  I  thought  my  son's  little 
sweetheart  was  to  remember  my  name  was  "father"! 
Child !  Dear  child !  What  has  happened  to  you? 

CAROL.     0  Judge  Page !     Drerit  Dury's  crazy ! 

(Drent  enters  from  swamp-path.  He  is 
ghastly  pale.  He  limps  painfully  and  has  his 
hand  tightly  pressed  against  his  leg,  just 
above  the  knee.) 


Po'  White  Trash  27 

CAROL.  Drent  Dury's  crazy!  Or  if  he  isn't 
crazy,  he's — he's  worse! 

JUDGE.  What  do  you  mean?  (He  speaks  sternly. 
Keeping  Ms  left  arm  around  Carol,  lie  grips  his 
stick  in  his  right  hand  and  advances  a  step.) 

CAROL.  0  Judge,  he — said  such  things — such 
queer  things — such 

JUDGE.     You  damned  rascal! 

CAROL.  And  when  I  was  going,  he  jumped  and 
caught  me  and  flung  me  and  hurt  me.  (Sobbing.) 
He  hurt  me  so ! 

BRENT.  Fo'  Gawd!  I  didn't  go  fer  to  hurt  yo', 
Miss  Carol1  fo'  Gawd,  I  didn't!  But  I  had  to  be 
quick.  I  reckon  you  didn't  hear  that  copperhead 
hiss — an'  I  did. 

CAROL.  (Springing  from  the  Judge's  arm.) 
Copperhead? 

DRENT.     He  was  fair  in  the  middle  o'  the  path. 

JUDGE.     And  you — took  his  bite? 

DRENT.     I  reckon. 

CAROL.  0,  no!  0,  what  shall  I  do!  0,  yo'  let 
yourself  be  snake-struck  instead  of  me, — yo'  po' 
brave  fellow!  Yo'  poor,  poor,  dear,  brave  fellow! 

(She  puts  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders,  and 
impulsively  leans  her  cheek  to  his.) 

DRENT.     Brave — dear (He  lends  very  lightly 


28  Po'  White  Trash 

and  timidly  sideivise,  and  brushes  her  hand  with 
his  lips.)  Gawd  bless  that  snake,  Miss  Carol! 

JUDGE.  Carol !  George  is  waiting  with  the  horses 
yonder  down  the  road.  Quick,  child,  quick!  The 
doctor !  For  his  life !  For  his  life !  Bring  him  in 
time! 

CAROL.  He  must  he  here  in  time !  0  Drent!  0 
poor  fellow!  He  shall  be  here  in  time!  (Rushes, 
weeping,  out  R.  back.) 

JUDGE.     My  lad — I 

DRENT.  (Limps  painfully  across  to  R.  and  takes 
the  branding  iron  from  the  pot.)  I  know  what's  to 
be  done,  Jedge,  and  I  reckon  I  can  do  it.  Sh ! — I 
hear  Aunt  Suke  comin'.  I  cayn't  be  bothered  with 
a  woman  while  I'm  doin'  this.  D'yo'  hear  me? 
Don't  let  Aunt  Suke  know !  (Limps  painfully  off 
R.  lack.) 

(SuTce  rushes  in  from  cabin.) 

SUKE.  Who's  that  I  heard  a-screamin3?  TV  here? 
YO'?  Whar's  Drent?  D'yo'  hear  me?  Marston 
Page,  I'm  axin'  yo'  whar's  Drent?  Whar's  Pen 
Dury's  boy?  Whar's  yo*  son? 

JUDGE.     My — son?     Woman,  are  you  mad? 

SUKE.  Mad?  Yes!  Mad  as  the  copperhead 
that's  bode  his  time  to  strike!  That's  why  I've  kept 
away  from  yo'  all  these  months,  Marston  Page, — 'cos 
I  knew  ef  once  I  set  my  eyes  on  yo'  I  should  strike 


Po'  White  Trash  29 

fo'  my  time!     Time  or  not,  I  strike  now!     Yo'  son! 

I  say  yo'  son!     Yo'  SON,  that  Pen  Dury  mothered 

twenty  year  ago  ! 

JUDGE.     I  never  dreamed  —  I  thought  - 

SUKE.     That  he  was  mine,  mebbe?     Not  I!     Pen 

learned  lessons    fo'   us   both!      Not   mine!     Hern! 

Hern  an'  yourn  !     Hern   an'  yourn,   that   my   sister 

carried  with    her    when    we  locked   this   cabin  do' 

behin'  us  that  night  yo'  sailed  fo'  Europe,  twenty 

year  ago. 

JUDGE.     I  never  dreamed,  I  tell  you  —  a  youthful 
(Sinks  on  bench.) 


SUKE.  No  woman  ever  yet  took  "youthful  folly" 
as  excuse  fo'  a  woman's  ruin  —  an'  I  reckon  you'll 
find  Hell  won't!  Pen  Dury  stood  between  yo'  an' 
me  while  she  lived,  an'  kept  my  hands  off  yo'  ;  but 
she's  gone  now,  an  now  yo'll  reckon  a  reckoning 
Marston  Page  —  with  her  son,  an'  with  me! 

(Drent  comes  from  behind  the  cabin.  A 
blood-stained  bandage  is  bound  about  his  knee. 
He  stands  listening.) 

SUKE.  Yo'  thought  it  was  all  over,  yo'  see  —  that 
"youthful  folly!"  Yo'  thought  nobody  but  Gor-a- 
mighty  and  some  po'  white  trash  would  ever  know 
how,  when  a  po'  girl  said  no  to  shame—  though  yo' 
wrapped  it  up  in  plenty  o'  money,  —  though  her  own 
heart  tore  itself  out  to  say  yes,  fo'  she  loved  yo'  so,  — 


30  Po'  White  Trash 

yo'  stopped  a  man,  hyar,  on  the  road  one  day  and  yo' 
said:  "Hyar!  If  I  give  yo'  fifty  dollars,  will  yo' 
go  into  that  cahin  an'  say  some  marriage  words  over 
me'n  that  gal,  an'  ask  no  questions?"  An'  he  took 
the  fifty  dollars,  an'  he  came!  An'  yo'  thought  yo'd 
tricked  my  girl  with  a  no-account  pedlar  an'  a 
devilish  lie!  ...  But  he  worn't  no  pedlar!  'Twas 
2/0'  the  devil  tricked,  an'  not  my  sister  Pen!  That 
man  wor  a  circuit  rider — d'yo'  hear,  Marston  Page? 
A  travellin'  parson — an'  the  marriage-words  he  spoke 
that  day  made  my  sister  Pen  yo'  lawful  wife! 

JUDGE.     Great  God!     (Rising.) 

SUKE.  God  cayn't  change  it!  (She  breaks  into 
a  wild  laugh.)  Look  at  him!  Look  at  him!  I 
reckon  the  devil's  pet  joke  is  watchin'  a  man  pay 
for  a  sin  he  meant  to  do, — and  slipped  up  on ! 

JUDGE.     And  you  mean,  woman, — you  mean 

SUKE.  (  Tears  paper  from  the  bosom  of  her  goivn. ) 
I  mean  that's  my  sister  Pen's  marriage  certificate, 
that  she  never  let  me  touch  while  she  lived,  and  that 
I  took  from  her  dead  hreast!  I  mean  yo'  fine  lady 
wife  is  what  yo'  fine  lady  friends  called  my  dead 
sister !  I  mean  that  yo'  son  George  an'  not  yo'  son 
Drent  is  daddyless!  I  mean  that  here's  the  paper 
that  gives  what  I've  ached  and  choked  fo'  fo'  twenty 
years — an'  now  let  me  see  yo'  git  it  from  me! 

DRENT.  (Comes  behind  her  and  snatches  the  paper 
from  her  hand.)  I  reckon  I  kin  do  that. 


Po'  White  Trash  31 

STTKE.  Drent !  (She  moves  lack  as  though  to 
willingly  resign  her  vengeance  to  him.) 

DRENT.  (Puts  the  paper  into  the  fire-pot,  ram 
ming  it  down  with  the  branding -iron.)  This  yer  fire 
has  burnt  out  one  snake-sting  to-day ;  I  reckon  it  can 
burn  out  another ! 

JUDGE.     My  boy — I 

(Sulce  springs  at  him,  tigress-like:  he  faces 
her  imperiously;  she  shrinks  before  his  look.) 

DRENT.  Not  that,  Jedge.  I  don't  take  that 
word  from  yo'  till  I  know  whether  my  maw  has 
forgived  yo'. 

SUKE.  Yo'  maw!  Yo'  little  cur!  An'  you 
burnin'  the  words  that'd  sweeten  her  name ! 

DRENT.  I  reckon  where  my  maw  is,  her  name 
don't  need  no  sweetenin'.  .  .  .  It's  all  right,  Jedge. 
...  It  takes  mo'n  a  paper  to  make  quality  out  o' 
po'  white  trash.  .  .  .  Marsr  George  he's  well  enough 
.  .  .  an'  he'll  better  .  .  .  'cos  she  loves  him.  .  .  . 
He  wouldn't  like  to  be  no  man's  son.  /  haven't. 
...  I'd  rather  .  .  I'd  rather  sleep.  .  .  .  Lay  me 
down  an'  ...  (Sings.)  Lay  me  down  and  die. 
.  .  .  (Staggers  to  bench.) 

SUKE.      What's  got  him?     (Rushes  to  him.) 

JUDGE.  He  was  snake-struck,  woman, — I  tell 
you,  he  was  snake-struck  in  the  swamp-path.  .  .  . 


32  Po'  White  Trash 

I  thought  the  burning —  .  .  .     Let  me  look  at  his 
eyes !  .  .  .  Are  the  pupils  narrowing?    Let  me  look ! 
SUKE.     His  eyes?  .  .  .  Snake-struck!  .  .  .  Snake- 
struck!  .  .  .    Gawd!    Why  don't  yo' get  the  doctor? 
Why— his  eyes?     I  can't  see.      I'll  fotch  a  torch. 
.  .  .     The  Doctor,  I  say !     Do  yo'  want  me  to  kill 
yo'?    The  doctor! 

(Judge  Page  rushes  out.) 

SUKE.     Let  me  see  yo'  eyes,  Honey.  .  .  .     Let 

me Keep  on  singin',  cayn't  yo',  Honey?     0 

Lawd,  Lawd!  Keep  on  singin'!  .  .  .  I'll  fetch  a 
torch!  I'll  fetch  a  torch!  0  Honey!  Keep  on 
singin' ! 

(Sulce  rushes  into  cabin.     Drent  rises  stag 
geringly.) 

DRENT.  I'd  have  liked  to  have  singed  for  her — 
Maw, — but  ef  yo'  say  it's  time — to — git — ter 
sleep 

(Sings  very  faintly — 

Pll  hunt  no  mo'  fo'  de  possum  an'  de  coony 
By  de  medder,  de  hill  an'  de  sho'; 
I'll  sing  no  mo'  by  de  light  ob  de  moon 
On  de  bench  by  de  ol'  cabin  do'; 
De  days  go  by,  like  a  shadder  on  de  heart , 
Wid  sorrow  whar  once  was  delight; 
De  time  hit  come — when — 


Po'  White  Trash  33 

(Falls  backward,  across  the  bench,  with  his 
dead  face  upturned  in  the  moonlight.  After 
a  pause  fluke's  voice  is  heard, — "Huccum  ye 
stop  singin\  Honey?'1  Sulce  rushes  in,  hold 
ing  a  flaring  pine-knot  above  her  head.  She 
sweeps  the  torch  low,  and  stares  into  his  eyes. 
Then  she  sweeps  the  torch  doivmvard,  in  com 
plete  reversal,  and  its  flame  flickers  and  dies.) 
SUKE.  0  Gor -a- Mighty !  .  .  .  Gor-a-Mighty ! 

(She  flings  herself  in  a  passion  of  thick  sob 
bing  down  across  his  body.) 


(CURTAIN.) 


IN   FAR  BOHEMIA 


In  Far  Bohemia 


CHARACTEES  REPRESENTED. 

ALEC  MCLAREN. 
KAREJ*  DEMAR. 
MRS.  PENNYPACKER. 

The  scene  is  Alec  McLaren's  lodging  room,  in 
Mrs.  Penny  packer's  house.  The  time  is  midnight 
of  a  stormy  November  night. 

The  scene  is  a  large,  bare  room  in  a  city  lodging- 
house.  A  fire  is  burning  on  hearth,  R.  C.  A  couch 
is  drawn  up  before  it  with  a  pillow  or  two  covered  in 
bright  chintz,  and  a  dilapidated  buffalo  robe  thrown 
over  it.  A  table,  C.,  is  littered  ivith  books,  news 
papers,  pipes,  etc.  A  battered  arm-chair  stands 
beside  it.  Other  chairs  in  various  stages  of  disrepair 
stand  about  the  room.  There  is  a  wall- cupboard,  with 
doors  left,  back.  At  the  left,  back,  a  large,  low  win 
dow  with  curtain  half  drawn  on  its  string.  The 

*This  play  was  written  in  collaboration  with  Mrs. 
Emma  Sheridan-Fry. 

37 


38  In  Far  Bohemia 

walls  are  ornamented  with  rough  sketches,  pictures 
from  illustrated  papers,  etc.,  unframed;  a  pair  of 
gloves  and  of  foils;  pipe  rack,  etc.  On  a  row  of  hooks, 
back,  left,  hang  various  fancy  costumes,  odd  hats,  etc. 
A  door,  L.  4-  As  the  curtain  rises  the  wind  is 
heard  shrieking  without;  the  door  is  pushed  open  and 
Mrs.  Penny  packer,  a  thin,  gaudily -dressed  Cockney, 
enters.  She  carries  a  candle.  She  is  speaking  to 
some  one  on  the  stairs  without. 

MKS.  P.  I  'ope, — I  sy,  I  'ope  as  bein'  inysulf  a 
lydy,  I  shouldn't  never  ask  no  lydy  to  do  nothink 
that  didn't  fit  a  lydy ;  an'  when  I  says  to  you,  Misa 
Demar,  Come  into  Mr.  McLaren's  room  for  a  rest 
an'  a  warm,  you  can  he  thoro-wahly  sure  as  Mr. 
McLaren  ain't 

(Karen  Demar  staggers  in  on  the  verge  of 
fainting.  Mrs.  Pennypacker  catches  her  in 
her  arms  and  half  carries  her  to  the  couch, 
where  she  drops  her,  lying  helpless,  none  too 
gently;  she  says  as  she  goes.} 

MKS.  P.  Lord  love  ye,  what's  come  to  ye,  Miss 
Karen!  Ye  give  me  a  turn!  Me  'art's  a-breakin' 
out  my  stys!  What's  come  to  ye,  I  sy?  (Stands 
looking  down  at  her.)  I  know  bloomin'  well  what 
'asn't  come  to  ye, — fire,  nor  food  nor  drink  'asn't 
come  to  ye,  till  yer  'ands  is  baby-bird  claws  an'  yer 
eyes  is  at  the  bottom  o'  wells !  'Ere !  Lucky  as  I 


In  Far  Bohemia  39 

knows  what '11  bring  you  to  life!  (She  opens  the  door 
of  the  cupboard  and  takes  down  a  whisky  bottle  and 
glass.)  I  can't  trust  me  'and  to  carry  a  drop  to  the 
poor  dear  till  me  'art  gets  quieter -like.  It's  a  mercy 
Pennypacker,  before  ever  we  left  Lunnon  for  America, 
an'  'e  got  'is  decree  habsolute,  taught  me  a  thing  or 
two  about  medicine! 

(She  pours  out  a  finger  of  whisky  and 
drinks  with  relish.  As  she  wipes  her  mouth 
on  her  apron,  she  sees  that  Karen  has  faintly 
struggled  to  an  upright  position  against  the 
cushions,  and  is  looking  at  her  bewilder edly.) 

KAREN".  Mrs.  Pennypacker!  You! — Where  am 
I?  (Stretches  out  her  hands  to  fire.)  0,  how  good 
it  is  to  be  warm ! 

MRS.  P.  A  drop  o'  this,  my  dear,  '11  warm  ye 
from  the  hinside  hout, — from  the  houtside  hin  ain't 
nowise  permanent  nor  satisfactory !  (Karen  mechan 
ically  takes  glass,  but  sets  it  down  without  tasting  its 
contents.)  Providence,  my  dear,  ever  guides  us  to 
our  needs,  if  we  keeps  our  heyes  open.  Pennypacker 
'e  says  to  me  many  and  many  a  time  before  he  got  hia 
decree  habsolute, — which  was  soon  after  we  came  to 
Hamerica,  my  dear! — "  'Arriet,"  'e  says,  "in  some 
things  you  'ave  a  hinstinct!  That's  hall  we  can 
call  it — a  hinstinct!"  An'  it  was  my  hinstinct, 


40  In  Far  Bohemia 

under  Providence,  my  dear,  that  led  me  to  McLaren's 
cupboard. 

KAEEN.  Mr.  McLaren's — 0,  I  had  forgotten — 
this  is  Mr.  McLaren's  room.  I  have  no  right — I 
must  not (Tries  weakly  to  rise.) 

MES.  P.  No  right,  indeed!  My  be  ye '11  be  flyin' 
next  in  the  face  o'  Providence,  an'  sayin'  a  body  has 
no  right  to  the  sty  an'  support  Providence  sends  to 
their  needs — maybe  you'll  say  I've  no  right  to  the 
stimulatin'  drop  I  was  about  to  take  for  the  sinkin' 
in  me,  when  you  come  to,  an'  I  brought  the  stuff  to 
you  instead!  (Drinks  again.) 

KAEEK.  I  must  go — go  away  from  the  fire! 
(She  leans  shiveringly  over  it.)  It  is  time, — it  must 
be  time  for  Mr.  McLaren  to  come  back  from  the 
theatre. 

MES.  P.  It  won't  be  for  hours  yet,  my  dear, 
McLaren '11  be  at  'ome.  There'll  be  the  manager  to 
hinterview,  an'  the  boys  to  stand  drinks  for,  an' — 
well,  as  if  you  knew  the  news!  McLaren's  made 
a  'it! 

KAEEN.     A— 'it? 

MES.  P.  Ah,  my  dear,  not  bein'  in  our  branch 
of  hart,  p'raps  you  don't  know  what  'tis  to  make  a 
'it?  (Produces  a  stumpy  Uack  pipe,  cleans  it,  fills 
it  from  a  tobacco-box  on  mantel,  and  smokes,  as  she 
talks.)  M'ybe  you  won't  mind  my  'avin'  a  whiff,  my 
dear ;  it  combines  wonderful  with  the  other  medicine 


In  Far  Bohemia  41 

to  quiet  the  'art ;  an'  hem'  McLaren's  own  'baccy, 
'e  caiyn't  grumble  at  the  smell!  .  .  .  Yes,  McLaren's 
made  a  'it.  'Twas  me  'usband's  nephew, — leastways 
me  'usband's  cousin's  nephew,  as  stys  with  me  an'  is 
the  comfort  of  me  age — 'im  as  is  right  wing  man 
down  at  the  Globe  Theayter  where  McLaren  made 
'is  'it  to-night,  as  come  back  and  told  me.  You  see 
McLaren  Vs  been  twenty  years  a  utility  hactor. 
Wot's  that?  Wy,  wen  you're  a  utility  hactor,  you 
plays  comic  servants  in  the  city  for  fifteen  a  week, 
an'  Uncle  Tom  on  the  road  for  twenty-five  a  week, 
and  'Amlet,  for  fun,  whenever  you  gets  a  chance — an* 
comes  'ome  hon  yer  huppers !  That's  wot  McLaren's 
been  a-doin',  an'  'e  hall  the  time  a  character  hactor 
fit  to  kill !  Character !  Anybody  could  see  it  with 
'arf  a  heye, — hanybody  but  a  manager !  Managers ! 
Faugh!  If  managers  'adn't  been  a  set  o' bloomin' 
fools,  wouldn't  I  'a  'ad  my  whack  at  Juliet,  any  day 
these  forty  years?  Just  because  McLaren's  got 
character  written  all  over  'im,  featured  in  the  bill — 
display  type — character's  the  one  thing  they  wouldn't 
let  'im  at!  Managers!  .  .  .  Well,  to-night  they 
put  on  "Fetters  of  Flesh" — big  play — first  night — 
great  part,  written  a-puypus  for  Algerson,  leading 
comedy  of  the  Meonian  Co. — great  part! — Gent  'oo's 
struck  with  paralysis  in  the  prolouge,  while  'e  an' 
another  vilyun,  'is  pal,  is  foolin'  with  some  pypers 
that  mix  things  up  for  heverybody — mix  up  love- 


42  In  Far  Bohemia 

interest,  money-interest,  heverythink — see?  'E  knows 
it  all,  an'  wants  to  straighten  it  all,  an'  carnt — 
bloomin'  paralysis — fettered  hy  flesh, — see?  Tries  to 
make  'em  understand — with  one  'and — all  Vs  got, — 
see?  Eest  of  'im  stiff — an'  one  side  of  'is  face !  See? 
Just  in  the  end,  wen  the  vilyun  is  'avin  everythink 
'is  own  way,  paralyzed  party  busts  fetters  o'  flesh — 
see?  Takes  a  big  brace — speaks — moves — gives  the 
'ole  damn  thing  away — gives  away  his  pal — straightens 
things  out — dies! — See!  0,  the  part's  a  corker! 
'Ole  play  belongs  to  that  part!  And  to-night — 
second  call — no  Algerson.  Not  in  theayter — no 
where!  Manager  wild — tearing!  Three  overtures. 
In  comes  Algerson — full  as  a  tick — dead,  howlin', 
tearin',  fool  drunk !  Braced  up  for  the  first  night — 
overdid  it — See?  Manager  wild — raving!  "  'Go's 
his  d— d  understudy?"  says  'e?  "Understudy?" 
'owls  the  author.  " Understudy  go  on  in  the  biggest 
character  part  written  for  twenty  years — smash  my 

play?     Smash  me?    Not  if  I" (Imitates  violent 

rage  of  sivearing.)  Manager  says,  "Send  audience 
'ome  and  advertise  the  Globe  shut  up  on  a  big  first 

night?     Smash  me?     Not  if  I" (Imitates  worse 

rage  of  swearing.)  McLaren,  pretty  white  around 
the  gills — his  chance  just  jumping  down  his  throat: 
"I've  understudied  Algerson,  sir,  an'  I  think  I  can 
play  the  part."  Humble  apology  to  'ouse — sudden 
and  painful  illness  of  Mr.  Algerson — hindulgence 


In  Far  Bohemia  43 

basked  for  Mr.  McLaren  —  ting-a-ling-a-ling ! 
Cnrtain  hup!  Hit  went  through  the  bloomin'  lot! 
Fish  in  water — man  where  he  belonged — McLaren  in 
character  work!  Three  calls  hafter  the  prologue! 
Five  calls  hafter  the  second  hact !  All  'ell  hafter  the 
third  hact !  Author  —  McLaren  —  speech  —  'owls — 
'andkerchiefs  —  a  'it!  —  McLaren's  made!  That's 

hall! 

(Karen  has  raised  herself  on  her  cushions 
as  Mrs.  P.  proceeds;  and  as  she  finishes,  falls 
lack  against  them  in  hysterical  laughter  and 
crying.) 

KARENS  0,  I'm  so  glad  for  him!  I'm  so  glad! 
I'm  so  glad!  It's  so  good  that  there's  luck  anywhere 
in  the  world — f or  anybody ! 

MRS.  P.  There  ain't  much  luck  traveled  your 
way  lately — eh,  my  dear?  The  little  pictures  don't 
sell— eh? 

KAREN.  It  must  have  been  father's  name  on  the 
pictures  that  sold  them.  You  know  I  painted  them 
all — all  they  bought,  for  months  before  he 

MRS.  P.  Before  'e  was  "released,"  as  they  say. 
(Aside.)  D.  T. !  An'  they  won't  buy  'em  now  'e 
can't  sign  'em?  Dear,  dear!  Times  is  'ard  with 
you,  isn't  they,  dearie?  I've  known  they  was  'ard, 
an'  that  was  'ow  I  'adn't  as  much  as  mentioned  that 
trifle  of  rent. 

KAREN.      (Rises    staggeringly.)      0,     I     know, 


44  In  Far  Bohemia 

Mrs.  Pennypacker,  I  know!    To-morrow, — perhaps — 

to-morrow! (She  crosses    totteringly   to    chair 

and  falls  into  it.)    0,  how  stupid  I  am ! — I  can't 

(Mrs.    Pennypacker   offers    her    the   whisky  glass; 
she  faintly  puts  it  aside.)     Not  that !     But  if  there 

were  anything  else, — just  a  crumb — just  a  swallow 

MRS.  P.  (Hastens  to  window  sill  and  takes  tin 
can,  bringing  it  to  Karen.)  'Ere  you  are,  my  dear — 
the  very  thing !  Milk !  Though  why  an  unmarried 

— moral — man  should  'ave  milk 

KAREN.  (Pours  out  a  little  tremulously  in  glass.) 
I  think — he  buys  it — for  the  cat. 

MRS.  P.  (Pulling  up  her  skirts.)  Cat?  There 
ain't  no  cat ! 

KAREN.     She  lives  on  the  roof.     I  don't  think  she 
ever  comes  in.     I  hear  him  coaxing  her  to,  some 
times.     He  puts  out  the  milk  for  her. 
MRS.  P.     That's  McLaren!     Character! 
KAREN.     (Drinks  the  milk  at  first  daintily,  then 
with  a  sudden  passionate  greediness.)     0,  how  good 

milk  is !     How 

(She  reaches  out  half-unconsciously  for  the 
can  Mrs.  P.  extends  to  her.  Before  she 
touches  it  a  voice  is  heard  singing  stento- 
rianly,  but  evidently  very  far  leloiv  stairs, 
"Glory,  Glory,  Hallelujah!''''  Karen  lays 
down  the  glass  and  moves  more  steadily,  though 
still  feebly ,  toward  the  door.) 


In  Far  Bohemia  45 

KAREN".  0,  Mrs.  Pennypacker!  You'll  explain 
to  Mr.  McLaren?  You'll  tell  him  that  I,— that 
to-morrow, 

(She  goes  out,  catching  at  the  door-post  as 
she  passes.  McLaren's  voice  sounds  more  and 
more  loudly  in  "Glory,  Glory,  Hallelujah!"  as 
he  approaches  the  landing.) 

MBS.  P.  Hexplain!  Hexplain!  That's  heasy 
said, — but  with  so  much  gone  from  the  milk, — an'  a 
trifle  from  the  whisky, — an'  McLaren  maybe  that 
'otty  from  'avin  made  'is  'it , 

(She  agitatedly  puts  whisky -bottle  to  her 
lips  as  McLaren  enters.  He  wears  an  ancient 
theatrical  cloak  and  slouch  hat.  His  arms  are 
full  of  cans,  bottles,  bundles  and  the  like.  He 
is  still  jovially  singing.  He  pauses  at  sight 
of  Mrs.  P.) 

McL.  Your  very  good  health,  Mother  P. !  (She 
endeavors  confusedly  to  put  the  bottle  back  in  the 
cupboard,  but  can't  find  the  door.)  0,  don't  hurry! 
Don't  hurry!  Glenlivat  of  that  quality  is  its  own 
excuse  for  consumption ! 

(He  puts  doivn  bundles,  takes  off  cloak  and 
hat,  warms  himself  at  fire,  etc.,  as  the  scene 
proceeds.) 


46  In  Far  Bohemia 

MRS.  P.     0,  Mr.  McLaren!    I  'ope  as  'ow  you 

won't  think  it  strynge 

McL.  I  give  you  my  word,  Madam,  I  never  thought 
anything  strynge  in  my  life — my  vowels  are  not 
constructed  on  that  principle !  Moreover  an  exposi 
tion  of  sociability  hath  come  upon  me, — and  I  sup 
pose  I  might  as  well  take  it  out  with  you  as  with 
the — other — cat!  Especially  as  you  haven't  her 
unkind  way  of  rejecting  my  hospitality;  you  even 
accept  it — unsolicited — you  know !  (He  goes  to  man- 
tel,  takes  pipe  and  opens  tobacco-box  to  fill  it.)  Have 

a  pipe-full,  Mrs.  P.? — Eh? (Looks  into  jar.) 

I  should  say,  have — another — pipe-full?  (Smokes.) 

MRS.  P.  0,  Mr.  McLaren,  I'm  that  upset! 
What  with  your  hamazin'  'it 

McL.  Oh!  The  news  of  my  'it  'as  reached 
'ome  already,  'as  it?  This  is  fyme!  (Sits  smoking.) 

MRS.  P.  (Slightly  maudlin.)  What  with  your 
'it,  and  the  queer  goin's-on  of  Miss  Demar,  across 
the  'all,  there 

McL.  (Drops  his  pipe  on  table.)  Miss  Demar? 
What  goings-on? 

MRS.  P.     Such  a  hamazin',  hunexpected  'it! 

McL.  Hit  be  damned!  What's  been  happening 
to  Karen  Demar?  (Rises.)  Woman!  Woman! 
Gather  up  the  fragments  of  yourself  and  talk  sense ! 
English  you  can't  talk — I  don't  ask  it  of  you, 
knowing  you  came  from  England! — but  sense  you 


In  Far  Bohemia  47 

can  talk,  now  and  then,  with  an  effort!  Brace  up! 
Make  your  effort!  What's  happened  to  that  little 
girl  across  the  hall? 

MKS.  P.  Starvation's  'appened  to  'er — that's  wot ! 
An'  faintin'  away  dead  as  a  corpse  on  that  there  sofy ! 

McL.     God  bless  that  sofa! 

MRS.  P.  When  I  'eard  'er  a-goin'  out  at  ten 
o'clock  of  such  a  tempestrious  night  as  this 

McL.  Out  at  ten  o'clock?  That  child?  What 
for?  Alone? 

MRS.  P.  I  says  to  myself,  when  a  pretty  girl 
who's  got  no  friends  nor  clothes — nor  food — nor  fire 
— nor  money — starts  out  alone  at  ten  o'clock  of  a 
tempestrious  night,  it  means,  one  of  two  things. 
Now,  she  bein'  wot  she  is,  one  thing  it  don't  mean 
with  Karen  Demar — though  there's  many  a  gentle 
man,  single  and  married 

McL.  I  don't  want  to  figure  in  the  papers 
to-morrow  morning  other  than  in  my  professional 
capacity — but  there  are  moments  when  assault  and 

battery (He  eyes  Mrs.  P.  vengefully  and  slowly 

turns  up  his  cuffs.) 

MRS.  P.     And  the  other  thing  was — the  river ! 

McL.  The  river !  Good  God !  (Snatches  up  his 
hat.)  But  you  said  she  came  back  again — didn't 
you?  (He  catches  Mrs.  P.  by  the  shoulders  and 
slightly  shakes  her.)  You  practical  exemplification 
of  all  the  vices !  You  said  so ! — didn't  you? 


48  In  Far  Bohemia 

MES.  P.  Certain  sure  I  said  so!  (Releases  her 
self  gasping.)  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  brought  her  to, 
with  your  whisky,  in  this  very  room?  An'  a  relief 
it  was,  I  do  sy,  an'  me  a-settin'  up  wytin'  for  the 
police  to  come  and  tyke  me  away  to  identify  her 
drowned  body. 

McL.  You — a-wytin' — not  following  the  child, — 

not, — just  —  a-wytin' (He  deliberately  opens 

door.)  Mrs.  Pennypacker,  I  think  your  husband's 
cousin's  nephew  must  be  wytin'  for  you  at  your 
domestic  hearth ! 

MKS.  P.  (Goes  bewilder edly  toward  door.)  Well 
— upon — my (Looks  toward  bottle  on  table.) 

McL.  Take  it,  Mrs.  Pennypacker.  (Carries 
bottle  to  her.)  Take  it  with  my  love  and  the  com 
pliments  of  the  season — take  it  and  depart — 0, 
depart! 

MES.  P.  (At  threshold.)  Well,  I  cayn't  see 
what  you've  done  for  that  starvin'  girl  any  more'n 

me.  'Aven't^/ow  just  set  a-wytin'?  Just  a-wytin'! 

(Goes  slowly ,  muttering  and  shaking  her  head.) 

McL.  (Goes  back  to  table,  absently  takes  up  pipe; 
crosses  to  fire;  leans  on  mantel.)  Eight  you  are, 
Pennypacker !  We're  pennies  of  a  pattern !  Wytin' ! 
Yes,  that's  what  I've  been  doing, — waiting  —  and 
that  little  girl  wearing  away  like  a  snow-wreath 
before  my  eyes,  day  after  day — her  dear,  blue  eyes 
getting  bigger  and  bigger,  and  her  poor  little  wrists 


In  Far  Bohemia  49 

getting  smaller  and  smaller — starving — and  I  wallow 
ing  in  luxury — and  having  luxury  left  over  for  Penny- 
packer  to  wallow  in !  Damn  it  all !  What  can  I  do? 
What  could  I  ever  do?  Proud  as — as  a  decent  little 
girl  should  be ;  no  more  take  a  cent  from  me  than 
that  confounded  cat — by  the  way,  that  reminds  me. 
(Opens  garret  window  and  looks  for  cat.)  Puss! 
Puss!  Kitty!  Kitty!  Kitty!  0,  there  you  are, 
are  you?  Won't  you  come  in?  Do  come  in!  Per 
haps  you  don't  know  I've  made  a  hit?  Oysters  every 
day  after  this!  Oysters  now!  (Comes  lack  and 
opens  can;  holds  up  oyster.)  Come  in  and  have 
one?  No !  Confound  you,  perhaps  you  won't  come 
in  till  I'm  a  star?  Take  it  then — take  several!  (He 
throws  oysters  out  one  after  another;  comes  hack  and 
ivipes  his  hands.)  It's  no  use!  Not  even  a  cat  to 
jubilate  with!  (Takes  up  pipe  again.)  And  my 
hit's  made!  Who  was  the  man  who  said  he  didn't 
get  his  Eden  Eose  till  he'd  lost  his  sense  of  smell? 
That's  me!  (Smokes  gloomily.)  And  that  Little  'Un 

freezing  to  death  and  starving  to  death — and  I 

(There  is  a  faint  cry  and  a  light  fall  without.)  Good 
Lord!  What's  that?— I  thought— if  it  should  be— I 
suppose  I've  no  business  to — Damn  propriety! 

(He  rushes  out.  After  a  pause  he  brings 
Karen  in,  in  his  arms,  very  tenderly.  Her 
hair  is  loose.  She  is  deathly  white.  He  lays 


SO  In  Far  Bohemia 

her  on  the  sofa,  covers  her  with  the  buffalo  robe, 
chafes  her  hands,  etc.') 

McL.  I  say,  Little  'Un — Just  open  your  eyes  a 
minute,  can't  you?  Just  a  minute?  There's  a  pulse 
at  her  wrist!  She  isn't  dead!  She  can't  be  dead! 

She  shan't  be  dead!     Little  'Un! (He  rushes 

to  cupboard,  and  then  remembers  the  whisky  is  gone; 
takes  flask  from  pocket.)  So  much  saved  from  the 
Pennypacker!  (He  puts  it  to  her  lips.)  Just  a  drop 
or  two,  Little  'Un!  There!  That's  better,  isn't  it? 

KAKEN.  (Opening  her  eyes;  faintly.)  Mrs. 
Pennypacker ! 

McL.     Odor  of  whisky !     Force  of  association ! 

KAKEN.  Mrs.  Pennypacker,  I—why,  I'm  in  Mr. 
McLaren's  room,  still!  I  thought  I  went  back! — I 

thought Mr.    McLaren!     (She    struggles     to 

rise.) 

McL.  Stay  where  you  are!  (She  sinks  back.) 
Come,  now,  Little  'Un,  don't  you  see  you've  got  to 
stay  where  you  are?  You  can't  get  up  alone,  and 
I'm  blamed  if  I  help  you.  I've  helped  you  to  do 
enough  in  the  suicide  line,  lately — helped  you  by 
looking  on  and  wytin' — I  mean  waiting. 

KAKEK.     (Bewildered.)     Mr.  McLaren! 

McL.  0,  well,  I'm  rattled,  that's  a  fact;  but 
there's  nothing  worse  the  matter  with  me.  I  only 
want  you  to  stay  where  you  are.  It's  warm;  that 


In  Far  Bohemia  51 

room  I  took  you  from  is  a  refrigerator !  Child,  you 
were  lying (He  stops,  choking  with  emotion.) 

KAREN.     (Faintly.)     Yes — I  know. 

McL.  And  there's  something  to  eat  here. 
There's  a  great  deal  to  eat.  I  had  some  idea  of 
celebrating — with  the  cat.  (Fumbles  among  pack 
ages.)  But  the  cat  didn't  see  it.  There's  some  wine 
jelly  in  that  bowl.  (Hands  it  to  her.)  Eat  every 
last  drop  of  that  wine  jelly,  Little  'Un!  Do  you 
hear?  Eat  that  jelly ! 

(She  mechanically  obeys:  and  presently  eats 
with  mad  eagerness.  He  watches  her  with 
growing  emotion:  and  at  last  turns  his  lade, 
unable  to  bear  her  hunger.) 

KAREN.  (She  sets  down  the  bowl  with  a  long  sigh, 
and  speaks  wistfully,  after  a  little  pause.)  0,  I 
wish  you  hadn't  done  it,  Mr.  McLaren!  Now  it's 
only  to  do  over  again — all  over  again ! 

McL.  (Coming  forward.)  What's  to  do  over 
again? 

KAREN.  The  starving.  The  freezing.  The  dying. 
It  was  almost  done.  If  you'd  left  me  where  I  fell,  it 
would  have  been  done,  before  morning.  I  knew 
that, — that's  why  I  didn't  go  to  the  river  to-night. 
I  started  to  go  to  the  river;  and  then  I  said:  "It 
will  come  before  morning  anyway ;  and  it  had  better 
come  at  home." 


52  In  Far  Bohemia 

McL.     (With  a  sol.)     At  home!     0,  Little  'Un! 

KAKEN.  There's  no  place  in  this  world  for  a  girl 
who  wants  to  keep  good,  and  hasn't  any  one  to  take 
care  of  her — and  isn't  clever  enough  to  do  any  work 
the  world  wants.  I  was  almost  through;  why  didn't 
you  let  me  go  the  rest  of  the  way?  (Crying  softly.) 

McL.  Because  there  was  somebody  to  take  care 
of  you.  Because  it  isn't  going  to  begin  again — Lie 
still,  Little  'Un.  I'm  going  to  talk  straight  talk. 
If  I  say  anything  I  oughtn't  or  do  anything  I 
oughtn't  you  can  go  away,  you  know — after  you've 
killed  me.  Did  you  know  you  were  engaged  to  be 
married?  Well,  you  are;  and  after  you've  had  a 

good  nap (Tucks  the  buffalo  robe  around  her.) 

and  some  breakfast,  I'm  coming  back.  (Begins  to 
put  on  cloak  and  take  up  hat.)  And  I'm  going  to 
bring  a  parson  and  a  license,  and  you're  going  to 
sign  your  checks  Karen  McLaren  before  to-day  noon. 
(As  she  tries  to  rise  and  speak.)  Hold  on!  Lie 
still!  I'm  not  through  yet.  I'd  like  to  adopt  you 
— I'd  rather  adopt  you — but  I  can't.  The  world  is 
full  of  people — mostly  Pennypackers — and  it  wouldn't 
go  down.  But  if  I  marry  you,  it'll  be  nobody's 
business,  will  it?  I've  made  a  hit — you  didn't  know 
that,  maybe?  Wait  till  the  morning  papers  come 
out !  I've  made  a  hit ;  and  I  go  with  the  company 
to  New  York  to-morrow,  to  play  the  biggest  character- 
part  the  American  stage  has  seen  in  twenty  years,  at 


In  Far  Bohemia  53 

a  salary  of  several  figures.  That's  settled.  Well, 
then!  What's  the  matter  with  your  going  to  school? 
There  isn't  a  Kindergarten  department  in  the  country 
wouldn't  be  proud  of  you !  What's  the  matter  with 
your  studying  Art, — Paris — you  know — anywhere? 
I'll  insure  my  life  to-day, — you  may  be  a  widow 
before  you've  grown  up!  You  needn't  be  afraid  of 
my  bothering  you,  you  know.  I  made  my  hit  in  a 
character-part — I  won't  tackle  Borneo  just  yet! 
You  shall  be  as  free  as  if  I'd  adopted  you;  and  if 
you  ever,  after  you're  grown  up,  run  across  Romeo — 
why — I'll  see  you  get  a  decree  absolute  with  alimony! 
Come  now,  Little  'Un?  It's  a  bargain?  Ah?  Do 
it  for  charity!  Think  what  a  mercy  it'll  be  to  a  man 
who  hasn't  anything  in  this  world  but  a  damned 
unsocial  cat ! 

KAREN.  (Tremblingly  begins  to  put  up  her 
loosened  hair.)  Mr.  McLaren,  I  thought, — 0  I 
thought  you  thought  I  was — a  good — woman ! 

McL.  Little  'Un!  For  God's  sake!  (Be 
wildered.) 

KAREH.  (Rises,  steadying  herself  tremulously 
against  the  sofa.)  Could  a  good  woman — could 
any  woman  with  an  honest  heart — take  home, 
and  shelter,  and  comfort,  and  all  a  woman  wants 
in  this  world — from  a  man  who  only  pities  her — 
who  does  not  want  her  ever  to  be  near  him 

McL.     Pities  her?     Doesn't  want   her  near  him? 


54  In  Far  Bohemia 

Little  'Un,  I  love  the  ground  under  your  poor  blessed 
worn-out  little  shoes!  Don't  want  her  near  me? 
Little  'Un,  I've  stood  half  the  night  with  my  face 
against  your  door!  But — I've  no  business  to  tell  you 
such  things!  I  never  meant  to  tell  you  such  things! 
You're  a  child!  You  were  born  a  lady!  You'll 
grow  up — a  lady!  And  I — I — Child!  I've  been  a 
strolling  player  for  twenty  years ! 

KAREN.  (Begins  to  beat  up  the  pillows.)  Do  you 
think  the  clergyman  will  mind  so  many  stairs? 

McL.     Little  'Un! 

KAREN.  You  can  tell  me  the  rest,  you  know, 
now  I  know  the  principal  thing — You  can  tell  me 
the  rest,  bye  and  bye, — in  a  year  or  two,  when  I've 
graduated  from  the  Kindergarten. 

(McL.  sits,  dropping  Ms  face  on  Ms  arms. 
Karen  goes  to  the  window,  and  raises  the 
shade.) 

KAREN.  Why,  it's  dawn — and  I  do  believe  there's 
the  cat!  (Comes  down  to  him.)  Do  you  know,  so 
many  times  when  I've  heard  you  calling  that  cat, 
I've  wanted  to  crawl  over  the  roof  and  say:  "0, 
please  call  me  home,  instead!" 

McL.  (Starts  up;  opening  arms.)  Little  'Un, 
if  you  say  that  sort  of  thing — I — Not  now !  (He  takes 
her  hands  and  kisses  them  very  tenderly  \  then  he 
leads  her  to  the  couch  and  tucks  her  in.)  You'll 


In  Far  Bohemia  55 

sleep  till  I  come  with  the  parson?  (Spent  and  ex 
hausted,  she  sleeps.  Looks  toward  window.)  Dawn! — 
and  our  wedding-day!  0,  Little  'Un!  Little  'Un! 
God  bless  you!  (Goes  to  door.) 

(He  buries  his  face  in  his  bent  arm,  leaning 
against  the  door  and  sobbing.) 


(CURTAIN.) 


THE  END  OF   THE  WAY 


The  End  of  the  Way 


DRAMATIS     PERSONS. 

WILL    SCAELETT  (of  Robin  Hood's  Sherwood  Out 
laws.) 
LADY  JACQUELINE  WEREWOOD. 

The  period  is  the  close  of  the  twelfth  century. 
The  place  is  the  castle  hall  of  Sir  John  Werewood. 
The  time  is  half  past  twelve  of  an  October  night. 

The  scene  is  the  hall  of  the  castle  of  Sir  John  Were 
wood.  It  is  an  ancient  hall  of  stone,  after  the 
manner  of  the  Saxon  castles  of  the  twelfth  century. 
There  is  a  great  fireplace;  the  logs  are  smouldering 
low,  as  if  the  fire  had  been  banked  with  ashes.  A  few 
pieces  of  massive  furniture.  As  the  curtain  rises, 
Lady  Jacqueline  pushes  aside  the  arras  that  hangs 
over  one  of  the  doors,  and  comes  in,  speaking  as  she 
does  so,  backward,  to  some  one  in  the  corridor  with 
out.  She  wears  the  dress  of  a  boy  of  the  period. 

*  This  play  was  written  for  and  is  the  property  of  Mr. 
Robert  Ederson. 

59 


60  The  End  of  the  Way 

LADY  J.  Come  your  ways  in,  Will  Scarlett.  Nay, 
man,  in  with  thee;  what  dost  thou  fear? 

(Will  Scarlett  enters,  with  much  caution. 
He  carries  his  long  low:  a  sheaf  of  arrows  is 
slung  over  his  lack.) 

WILL.  "What  fear  I?"  quoth  he.  Ay,  marry, 
what  should  any  he  who  hunts  with  Robin  Hood, 
fear  in  the  stronghold  of  a  righteous  magistrate?  A 
naught,  a  whifflet.  Merely  a  stout  cord  around  the 
arms  for  first  "God  speed  thee," — and  presently  a 
stouter  cord  around  the  neck. 

LADY  J.  Nay,  Will.  Here's  my  word  that  that 
stout  throat  of  thine  shall  know  naught  more  com 
fortless  than  a  draught  of  the  soundest  Ehenish. 

WILL.    "Ehenish!"  As  he  were  lord  o' the  castle! 

LADY  J.  Lord  of  the  castle  am  I  not ;  yet  I  can 
guess  me  shrewdly  where  good  Rhenish  grows  therein ; 
ay,  and  a  crusty  loaf,  to  test  those  excellent  teeth  of 
thine;  and  a  cheese  so  rich  with  age,  that  e'en  the 
mice  race  from  the  smell  of  it.  Warm  thee,  Will, 
and  take  my  word  that  presently  we'll  feast  as  fair  as 
good  comrades  should,  when  they  are  come  to  the 
farewell,  and  to  the  end  of  the  way. 

WILL.  The  end  of  the  way.  Ay,  and  had  I  not 
heen  fool,  e'en  to  the  marrow  of  me,  I  had  met  the 
end  of  the  way,  a  good  rood  or  two  nearer  to  where 
lies  mine  own  safety. 


The  End  of  the  Way  61 

LADY  J.  But  thou  wert  loath  to  cry  me  farewell. 
Nay,  say  it,  churl;  'twas  for  that  thou  didst  cry 
"Down!"  to  thy  good  caution. 

WILL.  Nay,  I'll  speak  truth  and  no  smoothness. 
I  came  with  thee  unsafely  beyond  the  forest,  for  that 
I  mistrusted  thy  hot  head  would  ne'er  get  thy  fool 's 
feet  in  surety  to  the  end  of  thy  race. 

LADY  J.  Yet  my  fool's  feet  have  led  thee  to  the 
losing  of  thy  wager,  eh,  Will  Scarlett? 

WILL.  Ay,  that  through  fools'  luck  have  they.  I 
wagered  thee  thou  ne'er  wouldst  get  uncaught  into 
the  strong  castle  o'  Sir  John  Werewood,  worshipful 
magistrate;  and  it  seemeth  thou  art  here;  and  for 
my  sins,  I  also — and  the  more  fools  be  we  all. 

LADY  J.  (At fireplace.)  The  more  fool  this 
green  wood,  for  that  it  smokes  like  half -caught  love, 
and  warms  a  wayfarer  as  little.  Burn  warmlier,  thou 
varlet.  (Pokes  fire.) 

WILL.  A  murrain  on  thy  clamor !  Wouldst  wake 
the  castle?  What  say  I?  Is't  mayhap  thy  will  to 
wake  the  castle?  For  this  was  thy  wager?  God's 
death !  Has  my  thick  wit  led  me  into  the  snare  the 
honest  are  aye  laying  for  us  greenwood  thieves?  (He 
fits  an  arrow  to  Ms  bow.) 

LADY  J.  (Faces  him  squarely.)  And  with  this 
word,  Will  Scarlett,  thou  facest  a  leal  comrade,  at 
the  end  o'  the  way? 

WILL.     (Slowly  dropping  bow.)     I  wronged  thee? 


62  The  End  of  the  Way 

Nay,  I  cannot  read  thine  eyes  and  not  know  I  have 
wronged  thee.  Traitor's  a  vile  word.  Reckon  with 
me  as  thou  wilt,  lad — thy  fist  or  a  throw  at  wrestling. 

LADY  J.  Nay,  and  I  said  ay  to  either,  where 
were  I  in  the  next  breath  taken?  I  am  in  no  haste  to 
see  Paradise. 

WILL.  Paradise  would  be  a  strange  lodging  for 
thee,  thou  fly-afield.  'Tis  from  the  other  road  I 
guess  thy  journey's  wended. 

(Points  significantly  downward.) 

LADY  J.  Mayhap;  and  mayhap  'tis  why  I  find 
this  world  too  cold  a  spot  for  comfort.  (Pokes  fire 
again.) 

WILL.  Quiet,  I  say.  Wouldst  have  theri  ghteous 
magistrate  afoot? 

LADY  J.  The  righteous  magistrate's  at  a  far 
calling.  Sir  John's  in  Palestine. 

WILL.  At  the  Crusades?  I  thought  him  home 
ere  this.  But  we  lads  of  the  greenwood  follow 
scantily  the  doings  o'  court  folk. 

LADY  J.  Sir  John  doeth  in  Palestine,  Will,  what 
thou  and  thy  greenwood  lads  make  shift  at  here; 
namely,  relieve  the  heathen  of  goods  which  Heaven 
meant  for  true  Christians! 

WILL.  With  this  good  difference,  lad:  The 
robbers  in  the  Holj  Land  come  back  with  praise  and 


The  End  of  the  Way  63 

pelf;  and  the  robbers  o'  the  greenwood  are  fair  game 
for  every  sheriff's  arrow. 

LADY  J.  All  good  sheriffs'  arrows  sleep  i'  their 
quivers.  'Tis  hours  since  curfew-time.  Kest  thee 
by  the  fire,  good  Will;  I'll  e'en  go  a-hunting  for  that 
Rhenish  I  have  vowed  to  thee. 

WILL.  Nay,  I'll  rest  not.  'Tis  not  so  many 
hours  to  dawn ;  'tis  a  shrewd  mile  to  Sherwood,  lad, 
'tis  the  way's  end;  and  so  God  speed  thee.  'Twas  a 
good  journey,  though  the  strangest  e'er  I  wended; 
but  the  journey's  done. 

LADY  J.  Nay,  the  way's  not  ended,  Will,  till 
we've  pledged  its  good  end  in  good  Rhenish.  I'll 
fetch  it  thee,  ere  thou  hast  said,  "  Where  goesfc 
thou?" 

WILL.  (Laying  his  hand  heavily  on  her  shoulder.) 
Nay,  that's  already  said;  and  more's  said.  Not  only 
"Where  goest  thou?"  but  "Thou  goest  not"— till  I 
know  where  thou  goest. 

LADY  J.  'Tis  not  the  hunter  of  hares,  'tis  the 
hare  that  fears  hunting  that  holds  me  here.  I  ne'er 
thought  to  see  Will  Scarlett  o'  this  complexion. 

WILL.  Thou'lt  see  more  in  Will  Scarlett  than 
thou  e'er  hast  seen,  and  thou 'It  feel  that  from  Will 
Scarlett  that  thou  ne'er  hast  felt,  if  thou  curb  not  thy 
fool's  tongue.  "Hunted  hare"?  What  else  is  every 
right-born  Englishman  that  stands  for  his  right- 
born  king?  Is't  for  mine  own  skin  I  fear?  Thou'st 


64  The  End  of  the  Way 

fared  with  me  a  seven-days'  journey.  Answer  thou 
that  thyself! 

LADY  J.  Nay,  Will— dear  Will,  thy  life  hath 
guarded  mine  when  no  need  was,  at  the  call  of  thy 
good  heart;  and  in  my  heart  thy  courage  is  writ  sure. 
'Tis  but  that  I  do  not  know  thee  in  thy  new 
humor. 

WILL.  'Tis  the  humor  of  him  who  fears  for  a 
comrade;  and  that's  the  fearsomest  fear  of  all.  Hark 
ye,  Jackbrain!  Seest  thou  not  'tis  not  alone  Will 
Scarlett's  life  I  bring  here  to-night  on  this  fool's 
wager?  If  I'm  taken?  If  they  lay  me  on  the  rack, 
and  my  pluck  cracks  with  my  bones  .  .  .  and  when 
they  say,  hand  on  screw,  ''Where  bides  Eobin  Hood, 
and  what's  his  password?  .  .  .  God's  my  life! 
Better  men  than  I  have  said  the  word  that's  sped  a 
comrade  to  the  rope,  and  themselves  to  the  hell  of 
traitors.  I'll  take  no  chance.  It  is  farewell,  indeed, 
I  say;  and  so  thy  hand  and  it's  ended. 

LADY  J.  A  man  foresworn  art  thou.  "If  thou 
enterest  the  Werewood  hall  uncaught," — this  thy 
word  under  last  night's  white  stars — "I'll  tarry  there 
with  thee  and  drink  thy  pluck  in  Sir  John's  borrowed 
wine."  We're  here,  the  wine  is  within  easy  stealing. 
I  claim  thy  pledge,  man.  Will,  let  me  to  the  cellar. 

WILL.  'Twas  a  fool's  pledge.  I'll  not  keep  it  to 
a  right  man's  risking.  Thy  hand.  Nay?  Then 
farewell  and  no  clasping! 


The  End  of  the  Way  65 

(He  starts  for  the  door.) 

LADY  J.     Farewell ;  and  good  riddance  to  a  liar. 

WILL.  (Starting  back  in  hot  anger.)  Nay,  now 
I  go  not,  tide  what  betide,  till  the  hand  thou  wouldst 
not  clasp  hath  taught  thee  the  lesson  thou  art  aching 
for. 

LADY  J.  (Greatly  startled.)  What  meanest  thou, 
Will,— good  Will? 

WILL.  Good  will  I  do  thee, — I  and  my  stout  helt. 
Nay,  many  a  time  in  this  our  week  of  wandering 
have  I  raid,  "A  murrain  on  the  lad's  sharp  nettle- 
tongue.  Sure  the  fool  that  begot  him  hath  never 
learned  what  sound  medicine  for  Jackanapes  hides  in 
a  hickory  rod!" 

(He  takes  off  his  belt  and  swings  it. ) 

LADY  J.     That's — that's  no  hickory  rod. 

WILL.  Thy  shoulders  will  guess  no  mighty 
difference. 

LADY  J.     Thou'dst  beat  me,  Will? 

WILL.  Ay  will  I,  with  good  heart ;  and  so  do  thee 
a  charity. 

LADY  J.     A — a  charity,  Will? 

WILL.  A  charity.  For  did  I  not  teach  thee  that 
a  man  is  not  called  a  liar  and  a  coward  by  every 
wandering  Jackanapes  he  journeys  with,  some  other 
will  e'en  teach  thee,  not  with  a  belt,  but  with  an 
arrow,  drawn  to  the  head. 


66  The  End  of  the  Way 

LADY  J.     Will,  thou  wilt  not. 

WILL.  Who  now  is  hunted  hare?  Off  with  thy 
doublet! 

LADY  J.     Will,  thou  canst  not! 

WILL.  Thy  shoulders  shall  guess  that.  Off  with 
thy  doublet! 

LADY  J.  (Strips  off  her  doublet  and  stands  in 
the  soft,  white  shirt  beneath.)  To  it  then.  Pm 
ready 

(Will  lifts  his  arm  for  a  swinging  blow  with 
the  belt:  she  looks  at  him  fearlessly.  After  a 
pause  his  arm  slowly  drops,  he  puts  on  his  belt 
with  unsteady  hands;  he  passes  his  hand 
across  his  forehead.) 

WILL.  Beshrew  thine  eyes!  There's  magic  in 
them!  Nay,  I  swear  it  on  the  rood;  there's  magic 
in  them.  How  else  when  I  would  have  given  thee 
the  sound  trouncing  thou  dost  so  soundly  need, 
doth  my  arm  drop  strengthless?  Boy,  is't  true? 
Hast  meddled  with  the  magic?  Nay,  I'll  ne'er 
betray  it  to  the  priests.  Speak  true.  Hast  meddled 
with  the  magic? 

LADY  J.  (Puts  on  her  doublet  again.)  With 
white  magic,  mayhap,  Will;  but  ne'er  with  black 
magic,  on  my  man's  word. 

WILL.     White  magic?    What  doth  white  magic  do? 

LADY  J.     Why,  many  things,  my  Will,  and  all  of 


The  End  of  the  Way  67 

them  good.  As  this,  Will.  Harkye!  Thou  wouldst 
not  let  me  go  to  seek  the  Khenish  we  drink  farewell 
in,  therefore,  by  my  white  magic,  go  I  to  this  arras, 
and  say  to  my  white  spirit,  "What  ho!  Wine  for  us 
of  the  best.  Ay,  and  crusty  loaf,  and  cheese  to 
men's  liking."  (A  table  is  pushed  between  the  cur 
tains,  having  on  it  the  things  demanded. )  And  lo ! 
my  kind  spirit  waits  not,  but  serves  us  on  the  word. 
(She  pulls  the  table  into  the  room  and  wheels  it 
forward.) 

WILL.  (In  mortal  terror.)  Saint  George!  A 
million  devils !  Saint  Peter  and  Saint  Patrick !  Bid 
it  away!  I  have  no  silver  arrow,  and  witches  care 
naught  for  good  English  arrow  wood.  Bid  it  away ! 
Nay,  then,  I'll  e'en  do  what  an  archer  may.  ( With 
trembling  hands  he  begins  to  fit  an  arrow  to  the 
string.) 

LADY  J.  (Who  has  been  in  uncontrollable  fits  of 
laughter.)  Down  with  thy  bow !  Thou  very  Prince 
of  thick  wits !  Down  with  thy  bow.  Art  thou  gone 
dream-struck?  Dost  not  see?  Will  naught  but  very 
magic  lighten  thy  blind  eyes?  Peer  out  through 
yonder  curtains,  then,  and  tell  me  what  thou  seest ! 

WILL.  (  With  the  most  elaborate  caution,  he  peers 
through  the  drapery,  through  which  the  table  has 
been  pushed.)  Let  me  sniif  shrewdly,  first.  Is  there 
brimstone  in  the  air?  What  see  I?  An  old  dame — 
or  so  she  seemeth;  but,  alack-a-day!  She  may  be 


68  The  End  of  the  Way 

the  devil,  for  aught  my  wildered  sense  can  swear. 
She  hasteth  away — and  laugheth  as  she  goes. 

LADY  J.  Well  may  she  laugh.  'Tis  a  rare  sight 
to  see  the  doughtiest  archer  in  all  green  Sherwood, 
fleeing  in  terror  from — from  what?  A  well -laid  table ! 

WILL.  Nay,  if  'twas  laid  in  Tophet,  I'll  ne'er 
sup  at  it.  Eead  me  the  riddle  .  .  .  I'll  guess  no 
more.  And  the  riddle  I'll  read,  or  I  bide  here  till 
the  sun  wakes  the  sheriff. 

LADY  J.  Ay'  now  that's  right  bravely  said,  Will 
Scarlett.  Sit  ye  down.  I'll  read  whatever  page  of 
my  poor  ,riddle  thou'lt  turn  me  to.  Sit  ye  down. 
Eat,  man,  eat. 

WILL.  (Cautiously  approaching  the  table.)  I'll 
but  sip  the  flagon.  E'en  the  Devil  can  but  half  spoil 
good  Ehenish.  (He  drinks?)  And  in  such  Rhenish 
— good  lack — I'd  all  but  pledge  the  Devil ! 

LADY  J.  (Perching  on  the  edge  of  the  talle  and 
nibbling  a  bit  of  bread.)  Thy  catechism,  Will!  My 
faith's  pledged  to  its  answering. 

WILL.  Whence  come  these?  (Indicates  things 
on  table.) 

LADY  J.  From  the  larder  of  the  worshipful  Sir 
John  Werewood — now  in  ...  Palestine.  ( With  an 
effect  of  having  been  about  to  say,  "in  Paradise.") 

WILL.     Who  stole  them  hence? 

LADY  J.  Nay,  "steal"  is  no  pretty  word,  amongst 
thieves !  No  steal :  a  good  gift  from  Sir  John's  good- 


The  End  of  the  Way  69 

heart  housekeeper,  she  who  hath  cared  me  through 
many  a  care  of  my  calf -time. 

WILL.  And  'twas  even  she  who  opened  to  thee, 
but  now,  and  let  thee  pass,  uncaught? 

LADY  J.     Even  she. 

WILL.  My  wool-wits  clear.  And  this  was  thy  magic! 

LADY  J.  (Laughing.)  Nay,  I  told  thee  'twas 
white  magic. 

WILL.  One  more,  and  my  catechism's  sped: 
How  earnest  thou  in  the  wood? 

LADY  J.     The  wood? 

WILL.  Ay,  Jackanapes.  The  wood  where  a  se'n- 
night  since  I  found  thee  in  the  nightfall,  nursing  thy 
twisted  foot  and  wailing  as  'twere  a  deer  in  a  springe : 
"Alack-a-day!  it  darkens;  I've  lost  my  road  and 
lamed  my  tired  foot.  I  pray  o'  thee,  good  archer, 
whereaway  lies  Werewood?" 

LADY  J.  And  thou  didst  answer,  Greatheart, 
"A  many  leagues  from  here  lies  Werewood.  Lame 
duck  that  thou  art,  come,  lean  on  a  comrade's 
shoulder — we'll  fare  together." 

WILL.  Ay,  an'  we've  fared  it,  over  rough  ways 
and  smooth,  all  the  way  through;  and  now  the  way's 
ended.  But  thou  dost  not  fairly  meet  my  catechism : 
How  came  thou  in  that  wood? 

LADY  J.     They  sent  me  to  a  place  I  liked  not 

WILL.     Too  free  gift  o'  the  hickory,  eh? 

LADY  J.     Too  many  prayers. 


70  The  End  of  the  Way 

WILL.     Ay,  praying's  clear  not  in  thy  talent 

LADY  J.     Nor  in  thine,  eh,  Master  Scarlett — eh? 

WILL.  Nay,  but  an  outlaw  may  say  a  prayer — so 
'tis  an  outlaw's  prayer. 

LADY  J.     Be  outlaws  churchmen,  then? 

WILL.  Nay,  'tis  not  in  a  church  my  prayers  come 
— the  priests  are  in  the  way.  'Tis  when  I  stand  i' 
the  greenwood — and  the  trees  talk  i'  the  night  wind, 
and  the  stars  are  big,  and  at  my  foot  is  a  comrade's 
grave,  that  died  in  a  good  fight — 'tis  then  the  heart 
cries  up  to  find  what's  i'  the  wind's  voice  and  the 
star's  silence;  and  to  find  where  live  the  men  who 
died  for  men. 

LADY  J.  May  such  a  prayer  be  said  for  me  in 
such  a  heart.  •  Amen. 

WILL.  Sayest  thou  so,  lad?  Ay,  and  'twas  said 
with  good  heart. 

LADY  J.  With  all  my  heart,  such  as  my  heart  is, 
'twas  said. 

WILL.  Thou  sayest  it?  (He  rises  eagerly.}  Nay 
then,  lad,  why  shouldst  not  make  it  sooth?  To 
die  i'  the  greenwood,  must  a  man  live  i'  the  green 
wood.  Wilt  cast  thy  life  there?  Think,  .  .  . 
there's  no  life  freer— no  life  in  the  which  a  man's  so 
true  a  man. 

LADY  J.  I  trust  that,  for  I  have  known  an  out 
law.  But,  Will,  dear  Will,  the  life  of  a  true  man  i' 
the  greenwood  is  not  for  me. 


The  End  of  the  Way  71 

WILL.  And  wherefore  not,  lad?  I'  the  name  o' 
the  saints,  wherefore  not?  My  faith  upon  it,  thou'rt 
fatherless. 

LADY  J.  Ay,  unfathered  and  unmothered. 
WILL.  And  no  one  rules  thee  with  right,  who 
rules  thee  into  the  uncomfort  thou  didst  flee  from. 
'Twas  a  brave  flight,  that  flight.  The  lad  who  flees 
from  slavery  fights  for  liberty,  when  the  man's  beard 
comes.  Thou  fleest  from  no  duty  who  fleest  to  the 
greenwood  with  me.  Lad,  my  heart  is  moved  as 
'twere  by  magic  indeed.  I  knew  not  till  thou 
spakest  that  word,  how  ill  it  were  for  me  to  leave 
thee.  Lad,  I  have  had  no  full-heart  comrade  since  I 
was  myself  a  very  lad.  I  know  not  by  what  strong 
moving  I  am  moved  to  plead  thee.  Come  to  the  free 
life — to  the  wood's  life,  to  the  man's  life.  I  have 
been  thy  field -mate  but  a  star's  hour,  yet  art  thou 
heart-mate  to  me,  as  none  has  been  since  my  brother 
died  a  lad,  here  on  my  breast.  Lad,  be  my  very 
brother.  I'll  make  thee  man.  I'll  guard  thee  as 
guards  a  man.  Lad,  the  stars  set,  I  must  begone. 
.  .  .  Wilt  come? 

LADY  J.  I  may  not,  Will,  .  .  .  brave  heart,  I 
may  not. 

WILL.  And  wherefore  "may  not"?  Dost  hope 
for  preferment,  in  turning  hearth-dog  here?  What 
means  preferment?  To  wait  upon  a  great  man's 
nod ;  to  pay  thy  manhood,  that  thou  mayest  eat  rich 


72  The  End  of  the  Way 

and  lie  soft ;  to  live  a  lackey,  and  fare,  up  yonder,  as 
they  fare  who  have  sold  soul's  right  for  body's  safety. 
Nay,  in  the  greenwood  there's  naught  between  a 
man's  soul  and  the  stars  of  God.  And,  therefore, 
man  stands — at  man's  whole  height.  .  .  .  Lad: 
Come! 

LADY  J.  I  may  not,  Will.  Nay,  despise  me 
not — an'  thou  knewest  all,  thou  wouldst  say,  "Stay: 
'tis  honor."  .  .  .  Will!  Look  not  at  me,  as  one 
who  scorns  a  coward.  .  .  .  Will!  Thou  shalt  not 
go  in  scorning.  At  the  way's  end,  Will — the  good 
way  we  have  fared  together — thou  shalt  not  go  in 
scorning !  Bide  here  but  one  small  moment,  Will : 
In  one  small  moment  I  will  show  thee  without  words 
why  'tis  I  may  not  fare  with  thee.  Glad  would  I  fare 

with  thee,  staunch  heart;   but  for Nay,  wait 

but  for  this  one  small  moment,  Will.  Thou  thyself 
shalt  say — shalt  bid  me 

(She    holds    out  her   hands    to   him,  in   a 
piteous  appeal,  as  she  goes  from  the  room.) 

WILL.  (Looking  after  him,  in  beivilderment.) 
What  means  the  lad?  "I  may  not,  in  honor,"— 

"thou'lt  say  I  may  not,  an'  thou  seest," See 

what?  What  next  of  magic?  All  things  fade  in 
mine  eyes  to  a  dancing  dream.  What  is't  to  me, 
Will  Scarlett,  archer  and  outlaw,  so  a  lad  cometh  wi' 
me  or  no?  .  .  .A  lad  I  ne'er  set  eyes  on,  till  a 


The  End  of  the  Way  73 

se'nnight  gone?  Met  eyes  of?  Ay,  there  is't;  there 
lies  his  magic.  His  eyes  are  as  the  deer  a  man 
tames  to  his  hand.  They're  as  the  stars  a  man  lifts 

prayer  to.     They're Nay — I'm  fay-struck.    I'll 

away.  He  will  not  fare  with  me,  what  matters  why? 
I'll  away!  (Starts  toward  door,  hesitates,  returns.) 
Nay,  but  I  pledged  to  him  a  stirrup-cup,  at  the 
way's  end.  I'll  drink  it  wi'  him;  he  shall  not  say 
again,  "Hunted  hare!"  and  "Liar!"  Ay,  "Liar," 
said  he,  and  walks  afoot  with  a  whole  head !  Tell  it 
not  in  Sherwood  forest,  lest  all  true  men  forswear  my 
company!  How  low  burns  the  fire!  It  feels  the 
dawn  chill.  .  .  .  Nay,  for  my  comrades'  sake  I  must 
be  afoot.  I'll  wait  no  longer. 

(As  he  turns  to  go  out,  Lady  J.  enters,  in 
her  woman1  s  attire.) 

WILL.  (Starting  at  sight  of  her.)  I'm  trapped! 
A  fool  must  e'en  woo  his  destiny!  I've  no  one  word 
to  offer — the  cord's  about  my  throat.  Madam,  I 
pray  you  take  no  fear  of  me. 

LADY  J.  Nay,  Will  Scarlett,  why  should  thy 
field-mate  have  fear  of  thee? 

WILL.  My  field-mate?— Thou?— Nay,  ...  By 
our  Lady  o'  grace!  .  .  .  Lad!  'Tis  thou?  'Tis 
truly  thou? 

LADY  J.  In  verity,  Will  Scarlett,  it  is  I.  But 
no  lad,  Will. 


74  The  End  of  the  Way 

WILL.     God's  death ! — a  maid? 

LADY  J.  Canst  thou  forgive  me,  Will,  that  I'm 
no  lad?  That  I  took  lad's  good  help  of  thee,  who 
am  no  lad? 

WILL.  No  lad?  A  maid?  Nay,  then  the  magic's 
clear.  .  .  .  White  magic — aye,  indeed,  white  magic 
— the  magic  of  a  white  maid's  eyes. 

LADY  J.  I  meant  to  tell  thee,  Will;  but  thou 
saidst,  who  thought  me  lad,  "I'll  company  thee  to 
the  way's  end."  And,  Will,  I  was  so  lone,  so  lame, 
so  frighted,  .  .  .  and  thy  strong  shoulder  was  so 
good  to  lean  on  ...  Will, 

WILL.  Nay,  'twas  best — 'twas  a  good  way.  I 
had  not  companied  thee,  this  good  way,  had  I  known 
thee  maid.  Is  the  way  ended, — is't  in  very  truth 
ended, — this  way  we  fare  together? 

LADY  J.  (Startled.)  How  else,  Will?  Great- 
heart,  how  else? 

WILL.  Nay,  thus  else:  If  I  bade  thee,  a  lad, 
bear  me  long  company, — be  field-mate,  and  wood- 
mate,  and  heart-mate — a  million  times  do  I  so  cry 
thee  now!  Mine  as  no  lad  could  e'er  be  mine! 
Mine  by  the  right  of  man's  love,  born  the  hour  thou 
criedst  upon  me  in  thy  need;  nourished  by  every 
hour  we  companied  together  under  God's  free  stars ; 
revealed  to  this  my  wildered  soul,  when  but  now  I 
would  have  done  thee  pain  in  my  just  anger,,  and 
thine  eyes  struck  mine  arm  strengthless.  In  that 


The  End  of  the  Way  75 

love's  name,  come  forth!  What  are  they  to  thee, 
from  whom  thou  didst  flee?  I  will  be  all  to  thee — 
thou  shalt  lack  naught.  Comrade  for  life  and  death 
and  love  that's  deathless,  come  forth  with  me,  and 
learn  what  like  is  life  and  love  when  man  lives  and 
loves  with  naught  but  the  starset  sky  between  him 
and  his  God! 

LADY  J.  (Breaks  into  a  passion  of  sobbing.)  I 
may  not,  Will,  I  may  not.  .  .  .  Will,  I  am  nor  lad 
nor  yet  free  maid.  Will,  I  am  Lady  Werewood ! 

WILL.     A  wife! — My  life's  love — and  a  wife! 

LADY  J.  A  wife  who  ne'er  knew  love,  ...  a 
wife  who  ne'er  knew  wifehood.  By  my  father's 
death-couch, — Will,  by  my  father's  dying  command, 
I  gave  my  hand  into  the  hand  of  Sir  John  Werewood, 
my  father's  oldest,  closest  of  comrades.  .  .  . 
"'Twill  be  safety  for  thee,  maid!"— my  father 
gasped,  and  died.  ...  A  priest  had  stood  beside 
the  couch ;  they  told  me  when  they  lifted  me  from 
my  dead  father's  breast,  the  word  of  that  priest  had 
sealed  me  wife. 

WILL.     And  thy  husband? 

LADY  J.  He  stood  in  war-dress  by  my  father's 
death-couch.  Within  the  hour  he  sought  ship  for 
Palestine. 

WILL.  God!  How  is  he  then  thy  husband?  A 
word  spoke  unknowing,  by  a  maid-child,  who  knew 
not  what  word  she  spoke — a  maid  they  penned  after, 


76  The  End  of  the  Way 

by  her  lord's  command,  in  a  convent  prison,  until 
that  he  cometh  to  teach  her  how  life  may  be  prison 
indeed?  Cold?  Old?  Thrice  wedded?  How  shall 
he  call  thee  wife,  who  ne'er  shall  call  thy  heart? 
.  .  .  Nay,  thou  art  mine — mine,  who  can  teach  thee 
true  love-lessoning,  and  wait  in  reverence  till  thou 
learnest  that  lesson!  Come  with  me,  now — now, 
mine  own — mine  heart's  heart,  .  .  .  Come! 

LADY  J.  Sayest  thou  BO,  in  very  truth?  Thou, 
who  art  man  and  large,  and  true  and  wise?  ...  la 
it  sooth  that  I  who  love  thee — f or  even  in  this  hour 
I  do  know  I  do  love  thee,  Will,  dear  heart ! — that  I 
who  love  thee  may  fare  forth  with  thee  without 
hlame,  and  God's  stars  give  us  welcome?  ...  I 
know  not — my  lore  is  hut  what  priests  teach — be 
thou  my  beadsman,  Greatheart  comrade.  Say  yet 
once  more  of  free  heart,  "Come!" — and  I  who  love 
thee,  follow  thee  over  the  rim  of  the  world ! 

WILL.  God  sees  .  .  .  and  I  dare  not  say  it! — 
God !— 'Tis  the  end  o'  the  way ! 

LADY  J.     I  may  not  go? 

WILL.  For  that  thou  art  wife,  who  knowest  not 
what  wife  may  be,  thou  mayest  not  go.  ... 
Farewell ! 

LADY  J.  Wilt  leave  me,  Will!  .  .  .  Nay,  my 
heart  faints — how  is  it  strangely  with  me? 

WILL.  Would  God  I  might  teach  thee  that  sweet 
why.  I  may  not,  Sweet — Sweet! — This  I  do  tell 


The  End  of  the  Way  77 

th.ee:  Thou  calledst  in  the  dark  wood,  and  God 
sent  me  to  thy  side.  In  any  peril,  any  pain,  let  but 
thy  soul  call  mine,  and  Hell's  fetter  cannot  keep  me 
from  thee!  To  my  heart  once — once — that  thou 
mayest  know  forever  what  love  is !  (He  catches  her 
passionately  to  his  breast ,  and  kisses  her  long.) 
Farewell ! 

(He  rushes  out.) 

LADY  J.  (She  watches  him  go;  a  great  and 
piteous  trembling  seizes  her;  she  sinks  into  a  chair 
with  one  thick  sob.)  The  end  o' the  way!  .  .  .  The 
end  o'  the  way! 


(CURTAIN.) 


A   COMEDIE   ROYALL 

BEING  A  FORGOTTEN  EPISODE 
OF  ELIZABETH'S  DAY. 


A  Comedie  Royall 


DEAMATIS  PERSONS. 

ELIZABETH  (Queen  of  England). 

SIR  JOHN  HARTWYND. 

ROYALL  HARTWYND  (his  son). 

SIR  EDWARD  Avis. 

LORD  MORTIMER  FARTHORNE. 

PHYLLIDA  FRENCH  (Lady  in  waiting  to  Elizabeth) . 

The  period  is  1580.  The  place  is  England. 
The  scene  is  an  audience-chamber  of  the  palace. 
The  time  is  noon  of  an  April  day. 

The  scene  is  an  audience- chamber,  with  carved  fire 
place,  L.  3.  Mullioned  windows  back,L.  and  R.  Large 
entrance-door,  ~back,  centre  covered  with  tapestried 
hangings.  A  throne-like  chair,  on  a  dais,  R.  3. 
A  carved  table,  L.  C.  with  chairs  on  either  side. 
Curtain-music,  any  Elizabethan  air.  As  the  cur- 

81 


82  A  Comedie  Royall 

tain  rises,  Elizabeth  stands  upon  the  dais,  having 
apparently  arisen  from  the  throne  in  haste  and  anger. 
Phyllida  stands  a  little  to  L.  of  dais  with  face  hidden 
*in  her  hands.  Royall  Hartwynd  stands  back  in 
shadow  of  curtains  of  window  L.  lack.  Avis,  Far- 
thorne  and  John  Hartwynd  stand  grouped  by  door 
lack,  centre,  as  if  about  to  leave  the  chamber. 

ELIZABETH.     Nay,  Lords,  not  yet!     Quit  not  our 

chamber  here, 

Till  that  there  buzz  into  the  ears  o'  ye 
A  somewhat,  that  may  sting  ye  into  grace 
Of  fair  and  seemlier  manners !     'Od's  my  life! 
Is  this  our  audience-chamber  where  ye  stand, 
Or  is't  our  apery? 

Avis.                    Your  Majesty — 
Your  Gracious  Majesty, — we  meant  not, — we 

ELIZABETH.     You  meant  not!     'S'  Death!     You 

meant  not.     Harkye  now ! 
Hell's  aristocracy,  my  Lord,  is  built 
Of  men  that  " meant  not!"     Here,  with  leave,  my 

Lords, 

Here  in  our  audience-chamber,  you  beguile 
An  hour  or  twain,  in  royal  company ; 
Claims  such  a  privilege  no  dignity? 
What  dignity  show  ye?     'Fore  Heaven  I  swear 
Ye  show  your  Queen  the  dignity  of  apes 
That  scent  a  jest  to  feed  a  grin,  withal, 


A  Comedie  Roy  all  83 

In  every  wind  that  blows ! 

Maid  Malapert — 

(Phyllida,  whom  the  Queen  indicates,  takes 
her  hands  from  before  her  tear-stained  face, 
and  makes  a  gesture  of  timid  and  supplicating 
deference  toward  the  Queen.) 

A  baby  sheep,  from  country  sheep-fold  new, 
Bleats  out,  responding  to  an  idle  word, 
A  sheep's  own  answer ; — and  to  every  lip 
Straight  leaps  an  apish  grin ! — To  all  save  one ! 
Where  passed  the  lad?    Where's  Koyall  Hartwynd? 

SIR  JOHN.  Ah ! 

Your  Majesty,  my  son  but  drew  apart, 
Fearing  the  scathe  of  that  celestial  wrath 
That  in  your  eyes  doth  wither  up  men's  souls. 

ELIZABETH.     Celestial  wrath?  Celestial  fire  o'  tow ! 
The  Tudor  wrath  ne'er  drew  its  heat,  my  Lord, 
From  any  fire  of  Heaven ! — Heard  you  not? 
I  bade  call  Eoyall  Hartwynd ! 

(Sir  John  crosses  to  window  L.  back,  and 
summons  Eoyall  from  its  curtained  recess.) 

SIR  JOHN.                               Please  your  Grace, 
I  plead  that  this  my  son  did  stand  apart 

ELIZABETH.     Did  "stand  apart!"     'Od's  blood! 

'Twould  seem,  my  Lord, 
The  royal  hangman  late  had  quartered  him 


84  A  Comedie  Royall 

So  in  your  speech  your  son  doth  "stand  apart!" 
Young  Eoyall  Hartwynd, 

(Royall  advances  to  C.  and  makes  profound 
obeisance.) 

stand  forth  in  our  sight, 
An  only  man,  encompassed  round  with  apes ! 
Alone  you  smiled  not,  when  this  lambling  here, 
This  saltless  egg  of  country  innocence 

(Phyllida  gives  a  choking,  hysterical  sob.) 
Brought  booby  blundering  of  country  phrase 
To  woo  the  grins  of  her  Queen's  apery ! 

ROYALL.     Your  Majesty,  I  saw  no  food  for  jest 
In  the  poor  phrase  of  this  poor  maiden  here, 
Nor  saw  I  jest  in — aught  that  followed  it ! 

ELIZABETH.      (Descending  from   dais.)     Young 
sir,  when  churchly  service  claims  your  powers, 
(For  this,  your  father  hath  acquainted  me 
Your  life  to  churchly  use  is  dedicate) 
Our  word  for  't,  in  your  loyal  gravity 
The  church  will  be  the  gainer. 

(She  extends  her  hand,  which  Royall,  kneel 
ing,  kisses.  She  then  passes  towards  doors, 
back,  centre.  Turning,  she  addresses  Phyl 
lida.) 

ELIZABETH.  Harkye,  wench! 

Since  presently  we  have  a  word  for  you 


A  Comedie  Royall  85 

Bide  here  till  'tis  our  pleasure  to  return. 

The  country  sheep-fold  calls  its  country  sheep ; 

To-morrow's  dawn  shall  speed  you  back  to  it! 

(To  the  men.) 

My  lords,  the  keeper  of  our  apery 
Keeps  ever  room  behind  its  gilded  bars 
For  any  ape  unhousen ! 

(Exit  Elizabeth,  through  door  back  centre, 
all  making  profound  reverences.  As  the  doors 
close  after  Elizabeth,  Phyllida  bursts  into  low 
hysterical  sobbing,  and  rushes  across  room  to 
window  L.  back,  where  she  throws  herself  on 
her  knees  by  its  cushions,  with  face  hidden. 
As  the  men  come  forward,  Royall  goes  quietly 
back  and  draws  the  curtains  before  her.) 

FARTHORNE.  Hell's  flame!  That  a  man  must 
take  such  words  from  a  woman !  The  sting  of  her 
cuts  sharp  to  the  heart ! 

Avis.  Good  Cousin,  let  your  wits  whisper  there's 
that  in  the  Tower  yonder  cuts  sharper  than  a 
woman's  speech.  A  lucky  sharpness,  i'  faith,  whose 
sting  falls  not  here  (Indicates  neck.)  but  here! 
(Hand  on  heart  with  mock  sigh.) 

SIR  JOHN.  By'r  Lady,  ay!  Our  royal  mistress 
hath  drawn  from  bluff  King  Hal,  with  much  else, 
the  trick  to  make  a  jest  not  of  the  royal  jesting — a 
bird  of  price  to  him  that  jests  that  jest ! 


86  A  Comedie  Royall 

Avis.  Yet  was  the  jest  worth  all  it  cost — 'od's 
body  was  it!  E'en  the  apes  she  aped  us  must  have 
grinned,  when — "Red,  your  Majesty!"  quoth  Maid 
Innocence, —  (Chokes  with  laughter.  Royall  at 
window  L.  draws  curtains  closer.) — and  she — the 
Queen (Laughs  again.) 

FARTHORNE.  So  thought  not  our  young  Master 
Parson  yonder!  Zounds!  Wisely  choose  you,  old 
Sir  John,  to  shear  those  love-locks  'neath  a  churchly 
hat !  "No  food  for  jest !"  cants  he ! 

(Royall  comes  down  to  C.) 

Avis.  Young  Master  Parson!  Young  Master 
Saint !  Harkye,  Gentlemen !  (Indicates  Royall  with 
profound  salutation.)  Here  struts  Saint  Royall, 
newly  sainted  by  her  sainted  Majesty,  of  not  too 
saintly  speech ! 

(Avis  and  Farthorne  laugh.) 

ROYALL.  My  lords,  'tis  not  with  royalty  alone  a 
jest  may  be  driven  past  the  road  of  safety.  Faith, 
'tis  no  psalm  book  swings  here  at  my  side;  (Touches 
sword.)  and  the  sole  church  that  yet  holds  vow  of 
mine,  is  the  church  militant! 

(Avis  and  Farthorne  clap  their  hands  to  their 
swords.) 

SIR  JOHK.     I  pray  you,  gentlemen — son  Royall, 


A  Comedie  Royall  87 

hold  your  peace!     The  Queen's  Majesty  may  not  yet 
have  passed  so  far  but  that 

FARTHORNE.  Nay,  no  farther — swear  me  on  the 
rood! — than  to  her  tiring  glass,  there  to  fling  loose 
the  locks  that  gentle  Spenser  glorifies. 

Avis.  And — "What  poor  color  give  you  then  to 
these  my  locks?"  saith  she,  and  those  her  'tiring 
maids,  less  innocent  than  our  poor  Maid  Innocence, 
cry,  "Color?  By'r  lady;  as  the  minted  gold  they 
shine!" 

(Avis  and  Farthorne  take  up  their  plumed 
hats  and  move  backward  toward  doors.) 

FARTHORNE.  As  sunbeams,  making  light  a  shady 
world!  (Laughs.) 

Avis.  As  flashing  wings  of  golden  butterflies! 
(Laughs.) 

FARTHORNE.  As  sunrise  shimmer  on  a  saffron 
sea!  (Laughs.) 

Avis.  As  the  new  aureole  of  our  fighting  saint ! 
(Indicates  Royall.) 

FARTHORNE.  Say  rather  coxscomb  of  Saint 
Peter's  cock,  that  clarions  a  denial  of  saintliness! 
(Flings  open  the  doors.) 

EOT  ALL.  I'  faith  the  Queen's  menagerie's  afoot — 
St.  Peter's  cock,  saluting  the  Queen's  apes!  (Bows 
profoundly.) 

FARTHORNE.  S'death,  young  sir!  (Hand  on 
sword). 


88  A  Comedie  Royall 

Avis.  Peace,  Cousin!  Open  doors  be  open  ears 
to  drink  in  words.  Dame  Caution  bids — best  speak 
not!  Give  ye  god-den,  Sir  John  and  young  Sir 
Parson! 

(Fartfiorne  and  Avis  exeunt.     Doors  close 
behind  them.) 

KOYALL.  Young  Sir  Parson!  Zounds,  father, 
that  word  must  hound  me  down  no  more !  No  par 
son  I,  nor  ever  will  be  parson ! 

SIK  JOHN.  "Never!"  saith  the  yearling  calf  i' 
the  stall!  Heaven's  wrath,  boy!  I 

ROYALL.  That  ever  I  should  live  to  hear  the 
doughty  Sir  John  Hartwynd  dubbed  begetter  of 
calves ! 

SIR  JOHN.  Your  tongue  behind  your  teeth,  sir! 
With  preferment  clear  before  you  as  ne'er  till  thia 
day  dawned — he'll  be  no  parson,  saith  he!  A  beg 
garly  sixth  son  of  a  father  so  crippled  in  estate,  that 
scarce  he  goes  fit  doubleted  to  court. 

ROYALL.  Nay,  father,  when  a  single  doublet 

wastes,  as  yours,  the  whole  fruit  of  a  loom 

(Indicates  Sir  John's  portly  paunch.) 

SIR  JOHN.  Hold  peace,  I  say!  Or,  by  the  Lord 
I'll  birch  your  parsonship!  All  my  six  sons  save 
you,  afoot  and  afloat  to  the  world's  end,  chasing 
that  fleet-foot  jade,  Dame  Fortune, — and  you,  for 
sooth,  would  make  calf-run  after  them,  and  leave 


A  Comedie  Royall  89 

mine  age  a  sunless  day  indeed,  for  that  I  have  no 
son! 

EOYALL.  Nay,  father,  an'  I  could  serve  you  here, 
save  under  churchly  colors 

SIR  JOHN.  How  else?  A  simple  knight,  I  have 
scant  word  at  court !  Parson  or  naught,  when  seek 
ing  for  preferment ! 

ROYALL.  Father,  never  Hartwynd  yet  swore 
fealty  to  a  sovereign's  banner,  when  in  his  heart  of 
hearts  he  waited  but  his  foeman's  trumpet-call  to  be 
his  foeman's  slave. 

SIR  JOHN.     What  driveling  is  this? 

ROYALL.  So  would  it  be  if  I  swore  service  to  the 
church  while  my  young  blood  beat  this  world's  battle- 
call!  I  tell  you,  father,  this  the  blood  you  poured 
into  my  veins  stalks  not  to  music  of  a  priestly  psalm, 
but  dances  to  an  April  roundelay !  I  say  you  nay ! 
Not  for  preferment,  not  for  place  or  gold,  a  Hart 
wynd  e'er  pledged  caitiff  service  to  a  king;  and  ask 
me  not — for  God's  life !  I  say  nay !  To  pledge  such 
service  to  the  King  of  Kings ! 

SIR  JOHN.  (Gasping  with  rage.)  A  Bedlam! 
A  Bedlam!  Bring  the  cords  and  whip!  And  she, 
your  Queen,  so  praised  within  the  hour  your  church- 
manship  to  be,  my  old  heart  biggened  with  the  dream 
I'd  see  you  yet  Her  Majesty's  privy  chaplain! 

ROYALL.  Privy  chaplain !  I!  Good  my  father, 
wear  I  not  yet  some  poor  rags  of  innocence,  that  you 


9O  A  Comedie  Royall 

should  scruple  not  to  bid  me  list  confessions  of  our 
Virgin  Queen! 

SIR  JOHN.  A  jackanapes !  A  malapert !  A 
murrain  on  your  insolence ! 

KOYALL.  Nay,  father — no  churchman  I !  Nay,  I 
say!  No  churchman's  prayer  goes  up  from  these  my 
lips,  save  one — and  that,  the  holy  monk's  who  sup 
plicated  thus:  "Heaven  send  me  virtue!  But, — 
not  yet!" 

SIR  JOHN.     (Moving  toward  door.)     Nowharkye, 

Sirrah,  and  mark  well  my  words ! — 
If  from  your  Bedlam  mood  you  turn  you  not, 
To  godly  ways  and  meek  obedience, 
If  my  sixth  son  follow  the  other  five, 
I'll — ring  a  country  wench  within  a  month, 

(Indicates  putting  a  ring  on  wedding  finger.) 
And  within  ten,  I'll  have  a  seventh  son! 

(Exit)  in  haste  and  wrath.) 

ROYALL.  (Laughing.)  A  son  of  his — Heaven's 
grace! — his  son  a  parson!  They're  gone  at  last! 
And  now  for  the  one  parson's  trick  of  which  I'm 
master — comfort  of  the  afflicted,  by'r  Lady! — when 
affliction  looks  through  dew-wet  violet  eyes,  afflic 
tion's  comfort  is  sweet  ministry ! 

(He  crosses  to  the  closed  curtains  of  window, 
L.  back.) 


A  Comedie  Royall  91 

ROYALL.  Fair  Mistress  French!  (There  is  no 
answer.)  Sweet  Mistress  Phyllida!  (The  curtains 
faintly  stir.)  Nay,  then,  my  little  sweetheart!  I 
pray  you  come  you  forth ! 

(Phyllida  comes  forth  from  curtains,  arrang 
ing  her  hair  and  coif,  which  are  in  some  dis 
order;  she  draws  long  sighing  breaths  as  she 
speaks,  and  from  time  to  time  dries  her  eyes.) 

PHYLLIDA.  She  hath  gone,  Master  Hartwynd? 
'Tis  safe  and  sure,  she  hath  gone? 

ROYALL.  Master  me  no  master,  dear  and  fair  my 
maid!  From  thy  lips  " Parson"  were  scarce  hate- 
fuller! 

PHYLLIDA.     'Tis  sure  she's  gone. 

ROYALL.  Ay,  hath  she!  There's  no  other  queen 
bides  here  than  this,  the  little  queen  of  my  poor  heart ! 

(He  kisses  her  hand.) 

PHYLLIDA.  Queen?  Nay,  'twas  not  queen,  that 
name  the  queen  did  name  me!  'Twas  *  'sheep"  quoth 
she!  'Twas  "malapert"  quoth  she!  'Twas  "saltless 
eggj"  quoth  she!  (Weeps  again.)  You  heard?  Ay! 
All  the  world  heard,  so  rang  her  voice  through  all 
the  world ! 

ROYALL.  I  heard.  Od's  body!  And  I  saw! 
And  when  her  swinging  hand  laid  buffet  on  that  rose- 


92  A  Comedie  Royall 

leaf  cheek  of  thine, — Heaven's  grace ! — 'twas  then, 
as  saith  Sir  John,  I  "stood  apart,"  lest  I  should 
speak  to  England's  Queen  what  Englishman  speaks 
not  to  any  woman ! 

PHYLLIDA.  (Rubbing  her  cheek.}  Her  swinging 
hand!  I'  faith,  'tis  marvel  any  woman's  hand  hath 
such  a  swing !  Methought  our  old  cow  Cloversides 
had  lifted  her  hoof  against  me ! 

EOYALL.  When  I  had  buffets  as  a  lad — an'  faith 
Sir  John  ne'er  spared  them! — 'twas  my  mother's 
gentle  wont  to  medicine  them  by  a  simple  magic — 
shall  I  show  thee? — Thy  mother  is  not  here  to  com 
fort  thee  (for  which  mercy  I  give  thanks)  so  sure  'tis 
but  my  duty (Gently  kisses  her  cheek.} 

PHYLLIDA.  (Nestling  to  him.)  Sure,  'tis  quaint 
medicine ! 

ROYALL.     'Tis  medicine  that  as  the  parson  saith 
'Tis  blesseder  to  give  than  to  receive ! 

(Lifts  her  face  and  kisses  her  lingeringly  on 
the  lips.) 

PHYLLIDA.  (Releasing  herself.)  Nay,  sir,  the 
hurt  reached  not  my  lips ! 

ROYALL.     'Tis  well  the  healing  should  outrun  the 

hurt ! 

But  heart  o '  me !     Here  is  a  hurt  indeed 
That  doth  outrun  all  healing ! 

PHYLLIDA.     Nay,  it  puzzles  me  sore  why  all  this 


A  Comedie  Royall  93 

evil  should  be.  Here  sat  the  Queen  a-jesting  with 
the  lords, — I  heard  them  not,  I  did  but  gaze  at  thee! 
— and  of  a  sudden  saith  Her  Majesty, — "Out  of  the 
mouths  of  babes!  The  maid  shall  speak!  What 
color,  child,  be  these  poor  locks  of  mine?"  Then 
said  I 

EOYALL.  "Bed!"  Heaven's  footstool!  "Red," 
said  you ! — When  of  all  colors  on  Heaven's  footstool, 
red  is  the  hue  she'd  least  her  locks  should  be! 

PHYLLIDA.  But  red  God  made  them, — and  'tis 
red  they  are ! 

ROYALL.  The  reason  of  all  reasons,  dear  my  maid, 
why  thou  shouldst  not  say  red ! 

PHYLLIDA.  (Sobs.)  0  me!  0  me!  When  I 
was  but  a  little  maid  at  home,  they  beat  me  sore  for 
e'en  a  little  lie ;  and  now  I'm  maid-in-waiting  at  the 
court,  they  cuff  me  that  I  tell  not  monstrous  ones ! 

ROYALL.  See  you,  love,  God  rules  the  country, — 
or  measurably  He  rules  it ;  but  the  court  a  goddess 
rules;  a  goddess  none  too  godly!  But  the  mischief's 
done — what  comes?  'Od'slife!  What  comes? 

PHYLLIDA.  Naught  comes  —  all  goes!  I  go! 
Heard  you  not  so?  "Sheep  to  her  country  sheep- 
fold!"  quoth  the  Queen! — "We  speed  you  thence, 
ere  yet  to-morrow  dawns!"  I  pack  me  home  to 
Devon! 

ROYALL.     Thou  lovest  Devon? 

PHYLLIDA.     Love  Devon!     That  do  I!     Ah!  but 


94  A  Comedie  Royall 

its  fields  are  green !  But  what  I  love  not  is  the  man 
who  waits  me  there, — the  man  they'll  wed  me  to. 

ROYALL.     By  Peter's  death !     They'll  wed  thee? 

PHYLLIDA.  So  swore  my  step-dame.  "An' thou 
win  not  grace  at  court,"  quoth  she,  "the  hour  that 
sees  thee  back,  will  speed  thee  on  thy  way  to  church, 
there  to  be  sealed  fourth  bride  of  old  Squire  Hunbers, 
who  hath  bid  for  thee!"  Ah,  Heaven  'fend  me! 
He  hath  eyebrows  like  a  pent-house,  and  his  hands 
are  rough  and  big,  with  hairs  that  curl  and  creep — 
ugh!  (Shudders.)  And  his  kiss 

EOT  ALL.     (Takes  her  in  his  arms.)     His  kiss? 

PHYLLIDA.  Were  not — like  thine!  (Rides  her 
face  against  his  breast.) 

KOYALL.  They  shall  not  send  thee  back !  Sooner 
we'll  take  the  road,  a  wandering  gypsy  pair,  with 
love  for  food  and  stars  to  warm  us  by !  But  how  win 
back  the  favor  of  the  Queen? 

PHYLLIDA.  If  she  but  loved  thee  as  I  love  thee, 
thy  sole  pleading  would  suffice. 

EOYALL.  She  loves  me  not  .  .  .  and  yet!  A 
thought,  my  maid!  The  Virgin  Queen  loves  no 
man ;  yet  they  say  that  virgins,  queens  or  no,  do  love 
men's  love ;  the  more  when  years  have  shut  the  gates 
that  bar  the  virgin  from  men's  love  ...  I  know 
not,  I !  My  father  bred  me  for  a  parson ! 

PHYLLIDA.  But  thou  dost  not  love  her?  (Her 
lips  quiver.) 


A  Comedie  Royall  95 

KOYALL.  Nay,  Maid  Innocence!  I  love  as  every 
loyal  English  heart  must  love  the  mighty  Queen 
whose  reign  hath  rained  down  peace  and  glory  on  our 
isle;  but  man  to  woman  .  .  .  Sweet,  thou  knowest 
the  color  of  her  hair, — as  thou  saidst  but  now  of  thine 
old  suitor's  kiss, — 'tis  not  like  thine! 

PHYLLIDA.     How  then? 

KOYALL.  Leave  all  to  me!  Love,  we'll  play 
comedy,  with  love  as  prize,  and  love  as  prompter  too. 
Nay — thou  needst  do  naught !  Ope  not  those  hedge- 
rose  lips,  lest  country  truth  pop  out  again,  and 
straight  undo  us  both !  Say  "yes !"— if  I  say  "Is't !" 
Say  "Nay"  when  I  say,  'Twas  not  so!"  Naught 
else !  Hist !  Methinks  the  Queen  is  here ! 

PHYLLIDA.     Yet  see  I  not 

KOYALL.  Seek  not  to  see !  'Tis  yea  or  nay  from 
thee !  Naught  else !  Guard  thee !  Naught  else ! 

(He  leads  her  to  fireplace,  and  moves  several 
paces  away  from  her.  She  runs  toward  him.) 

PHYLLIDA.     Love!     Have  I  vexed  thee! 
ROYALL.     Zounds!     Back  to  place,  Maid  Inno 
cence  ! 

(She  hesitatingly  and  apparently  much  be 
wildered  and  woebegone,  moves  back  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  fireplace.  He  gives  a  quick 
leap  across  and  snatches  a  kiss,  leaping  lack.} 

ROYALL.     Thou  vex  me,  Rose  o'  Spring!     Nay — 


96  A  Comedie  Royall 

cans't  thou  understand?     'Tis  comedy!     We  play  an 
hour  at  comedy ! 

(The  doors  are  flung  open,  and  Elizabeth 
enters.  She  does  not  for  the  moment  see 
Royall  and  Phyllida  at  the  fireplace.) 

ELIZABETH.  Now,  by  my  halidom! 

'Tis  rare  we've  tasted  such  a  cup  of  sack ! 
Our  humor's  warm  with  it! 

(Sees  Royall  and  Phyllida.) 

What  have  we  here? 

Our  maid  disgraced,  in  gossip  with  our  parson? 
They  note  me  not. 

(Passes,  moving  quietly  to  seat  on  dais.) 

ROYALL.  Alack,  kind  Mistress  French, 

That  ever  my  rash  word  should  draw  you  down 
Our  sovereign's  high  displeasure !    (Weep !    'Tis  safe !) 

(Phyllida  iveeps.) 

ELIZABETH.     His  word,  quoth  he !      There  is  a 
riddle  here ! 

ROYALL.     When  she  demanded  of  thee,  unaware, 
The  color  of  those  glorious  locks  of  hers, 
What  wonder  if  there  swam  up  in  thy  thought 
The  color  thou  had'st  heard  me  name  so  oft, 
As  of  all  hues,  most  royal ! 

ELIZABETH.  Well  said  I 


A  Comedie  Royall  97 

The  lad  hath  parts.     The  church  shall  give  him  up. 
'Twere  waste  to  make  him  parson ! 

KOYALL.  Bed!     God's  rood! 

It  is  the  color  of  the  sunset  skies 
When  that  they  flame  most  glorious ;  'tis  the  hue 
Of  all  things  rich  and  vital, — nay,  the  blood 
That  feeds  the  heart, — what  is  that  blood  but  red? 
It  is  the  color  of  the  flag  that  floats 
Above  the  noblest  land  God's  red  sun  sees ; 
Then  fitly  lends  its  color  to  the  locks 
Of  God,  His  mightiest  woman ! 

ELIZABETH.  Parson,  he! 

He  hath  a  tongue  would  grace  an  Emperor ! 

PHYLLIDA.     Yet  saidst  thou   not  when  late  we 
stood  alone 

ROYALL.     (Zounds!      Wilt    not    weep?)        (She 

weeps.) 

Such  words  as  these,  mine  heart 
Hath  oft  poured  forth  into  thine  innocent  ears, 
To  ease  that  secret  of  tormenting  love 
To  none  save  thee  confided. 

ELIZABETH.  Love,  said  he? 

ROYALL.     The  poor,  mad  fool  who  dares  to  lift  his 

eyes 

Unto  the  shrine  of  her  who  is  his  Heaven 
Must  look  to  meet  the  fate  of  Phaeton 
Death-scorched  by  too  near  splendor ; — ay,  the  fate 
Of  moth,  that  circling  inward  to  the  flame 


98  A  Comedie  Royall 

Dies,  by  that  flame  consumed.     E'en  so  am  I, 
I  die  of  love  for  her  I  may  not  love, — 
The  Queen  who  may  love  no  man ! 

(Dashes  his  hand  across  his  eyes^  as  though 
to  stanch  tears.) 

PHYLLIDA.  When  you  weep 

Must  I  weep  still? 

EOYALL.  (Stanch  not  your  tears  an  instant !) 

ELIZABETH.     (Rising.)    Young  Royall  Hartwynd, 

thou  hast  yet  to  learn 
That  every  Queen's  a  woman! 

ROYALL.     (Turning    and  falling  on   his  knee.) 

Fire  of  Heaven ! 
The  Queen !     My  shame  consumes  me ! 

PHYLLIDA.  Didst  not  know 

The  Queen  was  here?    Why  I 

(He  turns  over  his  shoulder  at  her  a  glare  of 
desperate  appeal.  She  falls  to  weeping  again.) 

ELIZABETH.  Again  I  say 

The  Queen's  a  woman.     Such  a  love  as  thine 
Makes  woman  thrice  a  Queen.     Rise,  sir,  and  stand 
Fearless  before  me.     Ay !     Beside  me,  sir ! 

(Royall  rises  from  his  knee.  Phyllida  ceases 
to  weep  and  stares  at  them  in  terrified  aston 
ishment.) 

God's  body!    Am  I  slave,  or  England's  Queen? 


A  Comedie  Royall  99 

And  if  a  Q.ueen,  then  Queen  o'er  mine  own  love 
To  give  it  where  I  will.     If  'twere  our  whim, 
Nay,  'twere  our  royal  purpose,  to  command 
A  commoner  be  King  Consort — by  the  rood 
Were,  by  that  grace,  the  commoner  not  a  king? 
Sir,  of  all  loves  that  e'er  have  cried  on  me, 
Yours,  crying  as  you  thought,  unheard  of  me, 
Out  of  a  man's  heart,  most  hath  kindled  me. 
Fear  not  to  stand  before  me. 

ROYALL.     (Approaching  nearer,  again  kneels.) 
Nay,  your   grace,    my  place    is    here.      (Moreover, 

presently, 

If  right  I  read  signs  of  yon  April  face 
My  place  will  be  before  the  headsman's  block!) 

PHYLLIDA.     0  Love,  forgive  me! 

(Rushes  madly  to  Royall.  He  rises  and 
with  manly  dignity  stands  before  her,  as  if  to 
protect  her  from  the  Queen's  wrath.  She  falls 
on  her  knees,  catching  and  weeping  over  his 
hand.) 

0  my  poor,  poor  love, 
What  bitter  end  to  our  poor  comedy ! 
She'll  marry  thee!     The  Queen  will  marry  thee! 
ROYALL.     Wits  serve  me  now !     Or  else  farewell 

the  head 

My  whirling  wits  inhabit ! 
ELIZABETH.  Comedy! 


ioo  A  Comedie  Royall 

What  bleats  this  lamb  o'  Bedlam?     Comedy? 
'Od's  saints  and  devils,  sir 

ROTALL.  Your  Majesty, 

The  comedy  is  over.     Naught  remains 
But  for  the  Player-queen, — a  queen  indeed 
Of  players,  as  she  is  a  queen  of  queens — 
To  speak  our  fate,  speaking  its  epilogue. 

ELIZABETH.     A  queen — of  players? 

ROYALL.  Aye,  as  queen  in  all. 

Your  Grace's  queenly  eyes  that  naught  can  film 
Read  the  poor  subterfuge,  whereby  young  love 
Sought  'scape  from  cruel  parting — punished  it 
By  stooping  from  the  throne  to  act  a  part 
Brought  our  parts  to  confusion ! 

(Will  she  take? 
Would  I'd  turned  parson  ere  that  I  turned  player !) 

ELIZABETH.  (After  a  pause,  in  which  she  has 
studied  his  immovable  face;  faintly  and  sar 
donically  smiling.) 

Your  queen,  young  sir,  is  player,  e'en  in  this, — 
She  sometimes  takes  a  cue  .  .  .  You  say  the  truth — 
The  comedy  is  done.     The  Player-queen 
Must  get  her  to  her  throne,  to  yawn  away 

(Mounts  dais.) 

The  queenly  days,  which,  when  love  visiteth 
'Tis  but  as  mummer,  mumming  comedy! 
Get  you  to  church !     Nay,  not  as  parson,  sir ! 


A  Comedie  Roy?li  101 

Too  many  parsons  now  go  mumming  it. 

We'll  have  no  more.     Get  you  to  church,  I  say, 

To  kneel,  with  her,  yon  Devon  lamb  o'  grace 

This  side  the  altar -rails.     God  guard  you  then! 

'Tis  like,  were  sovereign  less  soft  than  we, 

Her  bridegroom's  head  would  bride-bed  pillow  find 

Upon  the  headsman's  block. 

EOYA.LL.  Your  Majesty, 

A  man  must  e'en  rejoice  to  lay  his  head 
Beside  so  fair  a  little  head  as  this, 
Whate'er  that  fair  head's  pillow. 

ELIZABETH.  Get  you  hence! 

The  sack  that  warms  the  humor  of  our  blood 
Lends  not  its  warmth  forever.     Get  you  hence! 
But  first— your  sword ! 

(Comes   down  from  dais,  holding  out  her 
hand  imperatively.) 

EOYALL.  My  sword !     Your  Majesty ! 

God  knoweth  sword  and  life  your  forfeit  be. 
But — let  my  father's  name  and  service  plead 
Against  this  black  disgrace ! — My  life,  0  Queen ! 
But  not  my  sword!     God's  breath!     Break  not  my 
sword ! 

ELIZABETH.     Your  sword!    'Od's  body!  To  your 

knee  again. 
Lest  we  do  say — your  life ! 

PHYLLIDA.  Ah!     Mercy,  Madam! 


JQ2  A  Comedie  Roy  all 

(Royall  hands  her  his  sword,  first  kissing 
its  blade.  She  motions  him  to  kneel.  He 
obeys.  She  strikes  him  lightly  on  the  shoulder 
with  the  sword.) 

ELIZABETH.     Rise  up,  Sir  Royall  Hartwynd,  belted 
knight! 

(He  springs  up  with  a  gesture  of  ecstasy.) 
Take  back  thy  sword:  there's  land  shall  mate  with  it. 
And  guard  thy  lands,  and  guard  thy  mate  and  young : 
And    guard    thine   England,    and  thine   England's 

Queen, 

So  long  as  hand  and  sword  have  strength  to  meet ! 
ROYALL.     Once  more   I  say  .  .  .  and    hear  me 

King  of  Kings !  .   .   . 
My  shamed  soul  speaks !  .  .   .  I  kneel  your  knight 

and  slave  .  .  . 
God's  mightiest  of  women  .  .   .  and  my  Queen! 

(Elizabeth  permits  him  to  kiss  her  hand, 
looking  down  upon  him  with  a  wistful  smile. 
Then  she  motions  Phyllida  to  approach.  She 
gives  Phyllida  to  RoyalVs  arms.  Elizabeth 
moves  slowly  down  the  room  toivard  the  doors, 
looking  back,  she  says,  with  a  light  sigh.) 

ELIZABETH.     Nay !     When  the  man,  and  not  the 

courtier  speaks, 
My  Lord,  another  claims  that  name  from  you ! 

(CUKTIAN.) 


A  BIT  OF  INSTRUCTION 

A    LITTLE   COMEDY 


A  Bit  of  Instruction 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 

JACK  DESPARD,  of  the  Thalia  Company. 
MEETOUN  NEWBURY,  of  the  Best  Society. 

The  time  is  the  present.  The  scene  is  the  bachelor 
apartment  of  Jack  Despard.  The  time  is  half -past 
twelve,  of  a  mid-winter  night. 

The  scene  is  the  bachelor  sitting-room,  of  Jack  Des- 
parcfs  lodgings.  It  is  comfortably,  even  luxuriously 
furnished,  in  the  manner  of  a  bachelors  "den." 
There  is  a  large  divan,  with  cushions:  a  fireplace,  R., 
with  a  bright  fire: — low  bookcases,  well  filled:  loung- 
ing-chairs: — a  table  strewn  with  magazines,  etc.  The 
walls  are  hung  ivith  water-color  sketches,  pipe  racks, 
etc.  As  the  curtain  rises,  Newbury  is  discovered, 
asleep  in  a  large  arm-chair,  before  the  fire.  The 
chair  is  partly  concealed  from  any  one  entering,  by  a 
screen.  After  a  seconds  pause,  Jack  enters.  He 
comes  in,  somewhat  ivearily.  He  wears  a  handsome, 
fur -lined  coat.  He  does  not  see  Newbury:  his  atten- 

105 


io6  A  Bit  of  Instruction 

tion  being  concentrated  on  the  fact  that,  in  addition 
to  the  lamp,  three  gas-jets  are  in  full  flame. 

JACK.  Well,  upon  my  soul!  My  landlady  will 
land  me  in  the  insolvency  court,  if  I  don't  get  a  raise 
of  salary,  presently.  Does  the  woman  think  I'm 
running  a  torchlight  parade? 

(Newbury  has  awaked  at  the  first  sound  of 
Jack's  voice,  and  is  sitting  sleepily  up.  Jack 
sees  him.) 

JACK.  Why,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  — Newbury, 
is  it? 

NEW.  Yes;  Newbury — Mertoun  Newbury,  you 
know. 

JACK.  With  a  hyphen? 

NEW.  I  beg  your  pardon? 

(During  this  scene,  Jack  is  taking  off  his 
topcoat,  warming  his  hands,  changing  his  coat 
for  a  smoking -jacket,  etc.) 

JACK.  When  there  isn't  a  hyphen,  one  name 
goes,  you  know.  When  there  is,  the  two  names  are 
compulsory. 

NEW.  (Stiffly.)  Mertoun  is  my  Christian  name. 
There  is  no  hyphen. 

JACK.     Thanks. 

(There  is  an  awkward  pause.) 


A  Bit  of  Instruction  107 

NEW.  You  remember  seeing  me  at  the  Club? 
We've  met  there  several  times,  you  know — the  St. 
Dives  Club. 

JACK.  Have  we?  0, 1  dare  say;  I  didn't  remem 
ber  your  face,  for  a  moment,  but  one  sees  such  a 
kaleidoscope  of  faces,  you  know,  in  a  season. 

(Another  awkward  pause. ) 

NEW.  (Rather  explosively.)  Late  to-night,  aren't 
yon? 

JACK.     Yes;  rather.     Why? 

NEW.  0,  I've  been  waiting  an  hour  or  so,  I  fancy. 
That's  how  I  dropped  off — the  room  was  so  warm. 

JACK.     If  I  had  known  of  your  visit 

NEW.  0,  that's  all  right.  I  didn't  know  myself 
that  I  was  coming.  Just  decided  to,  on  the  jump, 
you  know. 

JACK.     Yes? 

NEW.  Yes.  Thought  I'd  find  you  in  about  half- 
past  eleven,  perhaps. 

JACK.  So  you  would,  if  the  business-manager 
hadn't  brought  around  an  infernal  pile  of  photo 
graphs  for  me  to  sign,  for  the  souvenir  matinee. 
Strange  what  asses  some  business  managers  are. 

NEW.  Autographed  photographs,  eh?  Great 
idea,  that.  Pull  in  matinee-girls  by  the  hundred,  I 
dare  say. 

JACK.     I   dare  say (Yawns.)     I  beg  your 


io8  A  Bit  of  Instruction 

pardon,  but  I'm  rather  done  up.  It  is  late,  as  you 
say — and  matinee  day. 

NEW.  I  always  supposed  you  play-actor  chaps 
must  rather  revel  in  matinee  days. 

JACK.  Do  you  know  any  fellows  who  like  working 
double  time?  If  you  do,  I'll  bet  a  tenner  they're  not 
in  our  line  of  work. 

NEW.  Well,  but  aren't  the  matinees  the  really 
interesting  days?  Fancy  playing  to  an  audience  of 
adorers. 

JACK.  If  they're  adorers,  they  conceal  it  skillfully. 
I'd  about  as  soon  start  out  with  Nansen,  in  search 
of  a  chill,  as  play  to  a  matinee  audience. 

NEW.  The  matinee  maids  must  keep  their  warmth 
for  their  letters,  then,  eh? 

JACK.  Bosh!  When  the  papers  get  out  of 
sea-serpent  specials  they  write  up  matinee  letters. 
They're  a  myth,  mostly;  though  now  and  then 

NEW.     (Rather  eagerly.)     Yes?    Now  and  then? 

JACK.  Well,  now  and  then  a  fellow  gets  a  letter 
that  he'd  like  to  enclose  to  a  girl's  mother,  with  a 
manual  on  "The  Duties  of  Parents." 

NEW.  Bless  you !  Most  of  the  mothers  have  let 
ters  of  their  own.  The  duties  of  parents  are  obso 
lete,  except  in  manuals. 

JACK.  That  view  of  it  hadn't  struck  me.  I  don't 
do  the  society  act  enough  to  keep  my  morals  up  to 
date. 


A  Bit  of  Instruction  109 

NEW.  And  the  girls  in  your  business, — I  wager 
they're  always  getting  letters  you'd  like  to  send  to 
the  chaps'  fathers? 

JACK.  N-no.  I  think  I  should  prefer  to  talk 
that  sort  of  letters  over  with  the  chaps  themselves. 

(He  takes  a  riding-whip  from  the  table^  as 
if  absent-mindedly,  and  nervously  plays  with 

a.) 

NEW.     (Indicating  whip.)     With — accessories? 

JACK.     As  you  say — with  accessories. 

NEW.  Wouldn't  you  have  rather  a  chore,  some 
times,  you  know?  Rafts  of  the  fellows  who  write 
'em  are  working  in  the  Gym.  right  along. 

JACK.  Yes.  I've  put  on  the  gloves  with  them 
there,  now  and  then. 

NEW.     There? 

JACK.  Of  course.  I  learned  my  A  B  C's  at  Har 
vard,  once  on  a  time. 

NEW.     Harvard?     Why,  I  didn't  know 

JACK.  No.  I've  managed  to  conceal  the  fact 
from  our  press-agent,  up  to  date.  Yes,  I've  put  on 
the  gloves  in  the  old  Gym.  more  times  than  a  few. 
Great  sport!  I  say,  wouldn't  you  like  to  try  a  bout, 
now? 

NEW.     Now?     Good  Lord!     No.     What  for? 

JACK.  0,  nothing.  I — I  just  thought  you  might 
feel  like  it.  I  felt  like  it.  You  don't  mind  my 
changing  my  shoes? 


no  A  Bit  of  Instruction 

(He  leisurely  exchanges  boots  for  slippers.) 

You  see,  I've  been  doing  a  society  part  to-day; 
and  I  never  did  find  tight  boots  compatible  with 
repose  of  mind. 

NEW.  0,  that's  all  right,  Despard.  By  the  way, 
— that  reminds  me  to  ask  you  something.  We  had  a 
bet  on,  down  at  the  Club  to-night. 

JACK.     (With polite  boredom.)     Yes? 

NEW.  Yes.  We  were  betting  about  your  real 
name.  Do  you  mind  telling  me  what  your  real  name 
is? 

JACK.  (His  exasperation  is  evidently  growing 
tense.  He  opens  his  card-case,  and  hands  Newbury 
his  card. )  My  card. 

NEW.  (Reads.)  John  Kandolph  Despard.  0, 
but  I  didn't  mean  your  stage  name,  you  know. 

JACK.  Neither  did  I.  My  name's  on  that  card. 
Is  it  necessary,  to  settle  your  Club  bet,  that  I  send  to 
Virginia  for  my  birth-certificate? 

NEW.  Great  Scott!  You're  not  one  of  the 
Despards  of 

JACK.  My  people  rode  with  Light-Horse  Harry. 
Did  you  think  all  actors  were  raised  from  bulbs,  in 
window-glasses? 

NEW.     Well,  it's  no  wonder  the  matinee  girls 

JACK.  0,  da bless  the  matinee  girls.  I  say, 

Newbury,  you  didn't  come  here  at  this  ungodly  hour 
to  talk  about  matinee  girls,  did  you? 


A  Bit  of  Instruction  1 1 1 

NEW.  Well,  yes — perhaps — in  a  way.  You  see, 
the  fellows  at  the  Club  were  saying  that — that  it 
would  be  a  good  joke  to  see  one  of  the  real — what 
one  of  those  matinee  letters  really  was  like,  don't  you 
know. 

JACK.  (Rising.)  And  they  thought  I  might 
give  them  the  chance  of  finding  out?  I  say,  what 
paper  are  you  reporting  for,  Newbury? 

NEW.     I?     Eeporting? 

JACK.  If  you're  not  doing  the  sneak  reporter  act, 
what  the  devil  are  you  doing? 

(They  face  each  other ,  in  self-contained  anger.) 

NEW.  Do  you  mind  telling  me  what  you  mean  by 
treating  me  as  if  I  were  an  intrusive  ass? 

JACK.  Do  you  mind  telling  me  how  else  it  would 
be  appropriate  for  me  to  treat  you? 

NEW.     Will  you  explain  yourself? 

JACK.  How  else  would  you  treat  a  man  who,  on 
the  strength  of  a  Club  introduction,  wheels  himself, 
uninvited,  into  your  rooms,  at  midnight, — asks  you 
whether  your  name  is  not  an  alias, — suggests  that 
you  can't  make  your  hands  keep  your  head, — winds 
up  by  inviting  you  to  turn  over  to  a  parcel  of  Club 
loungers  the  confidence  a  silly  girl  or  two  have  put  in 
your  decency? 

NEW.  Why, — I  thought — being  an  actor, — 
Bohemia,  you  know,  and  all  that 


H2  A  Bit  of  Instruction 

JACK.  You  thought  because  actors  sometimes 
have  to  sell  their  talents  in  a  damned  poor  market, 
that  we  put  up  our  private  honor  for  sale  at  the  same 
shop?  That's  a  mistake;  and  you  may  find  it  a 
costly  one. 

NEW.  (After  a  short  pause  he  peels  off  his  right- 
hand  glove,  and  offers  his  hand.)  Shake? 

JACK.     (Amazed.)     Eh? 

NEW.  Shake — won't  you?  You  have  such  a  jolly, 
convincing  way  of  putting  things,  I  thought  I'd  like 
to  shake  hands  with  you,  don't  you  know.  0,  I'm 
an  ass,  all  right,  Despard,  and  I'm  a  near-sighted 
ass;  but  when  I  do  see  a  gentleman,  I  know  the 
breed.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Despard.  Shake — will 

^  (They  shake  hands,  heartily.) 

JACK.     Have  a  cigar? 

NEW.     Thanks.     (They  light  cigars.) 

JACK.     Sit  down,  won't  you? 
(They  sit.) 

JACK.  (Peaching  across  table.)  I  say — Shake 
again,  won't  you?  You  see,  Newbury,  I've  an 
infernal  temper,  and  that's  a  fact. 

NEW.  0,  that's  all  right.  From  your  own  stand 
point,  it  was  uncommonly  kind  of  you  not  to  pitch 
me  down  stairs.  I  say,  one  of  the  things  I  came  in 
for,  you  know,  was  this :  I  want  you  to  give  me  a  bit 
of  instruction. 


A  Bit  of  Instruction  1 1 3 

JACK.  Instruction  isn't  much  in  my  line;  but 
fire  ahead. 

NEW.  I  want  to  know  if  you'll  teach  me  to  act, 
you  know. 

JACK.  To  act?  0,  well,  a  little  thing  like  that, 
you  know !  (Looks  at  watch.)  Quarter  to  one.  Do 
you  think  you  could  give  me  till  half -past  four? 
With  a  college  education  as  a  foundation,  you  know, 
you  really  ought, 

NEW.  Don't  chaff.  I'm  in  a  beastly  hole.  You 
see,  my  cousin  Ethel  Marlborough — well,  she  really 
isn't  my  cousin,  you  know,  but  her  mother  married 
my  uncle  Jim. 

JACK.  If  you  could  skip  the  Creation,  old  fellow, 
and  come  to  the  Deluge 

NEW.  0,  well,  all  right.  You  see,  my  cousin 
Ethel  is  getting  up  a  fair. 

JACK.     I  sympathize  with  her  relations. 

NEW.  And  she's  determined  to  have  one  night  of 
theatricals;  and,  hang  it,  you  know,  I've  got  to  act. 

JACK.     I  transfer  my  sympathy  to  your  relations. 

NEW.  Yes ;  I've  got  to  act,  because  there's  only 
one  Ferdinand  costume,  and  I'm  the  only  fellow  it 
will  fit. 

JACK.  "Ferdinand?"  Great  Shakespeare !  You 
don't  mean  that  you  are  going  to  tackle  "The  Tem 
pest"? 

NEW.     0,  but  we  are,  then.     You  see,  Ethel  has 


H4  A  Bit  of  Instruction 

written  a  play,  and  we  were  going  to  give  that ;  but 
she  thought  we  didn't  have  time  to  do  it  justice,  and 
we'd  better  do  something  from  Shakespeare. 

JACK.  Well,  perhaps  he  could  bear  it  better. 
He's  been  dead  a  long  time. 

NEW.  We're  just  going  to  do  a  scene  or  two,  you 
know.  Ethel  has  been  wild  to  have  a  go  at  Miranda, 
ever  since  she  saw  Ada  Eehan  do  her,  you  know. 

JACK.     Yes — naturally.     And  you're  Ferdinand? 

NEW.     Yes.     Damned  hard  luck,  isn't  it? 

JACK.  0,  I  don't  know.  As  I  said,  the  author 
has  been  dead  a  long  time. 

NEW.  0,  hang  it!  I  say,  don't  chaff.  I  mean 
bad  luck  for  me.  But  I  can't  quit.  The  costume  is 
such  a  dizzy  fit;  and  then,  you  know,  Ethel's  to  do 
Miranda;  and  there  are  speeches  that — well,  you 
know,  the  family  wouldn't  like  any  one  not  a  rela 
tion,  .... 

JACK.     Such  as  a  cousin  by  marriage. 

NEW.  0,  it's  just  the  same.  She  came  into  the 
family  when  she  was  in  pinafores.  And  now,  you 
see,  I'm  in  for  it;  and  I  don't  want  to  look  a  bigger 
fool  than  I  can  help. 

JACK.     You  naturally  wouldn't. — No. 

NEW.  And  I  thought  you  might  be  able  to  give 
me  a  leg  up,  in  the  log-rolling  scene. 

JACK.  Log-rolling  scene  is  good  —  sounds  polit 
ical. 


A  Bit  of  Instruction  1 1  5 

NEW.  Hang  it.  Don't  chaff.  Will  you,  or 
won't  you? 

JACK.  0,  I  will — I  will.  If  there  is  anything  on 
earth  I  find  soothing  and  refreshing,  it  is  teaching  an 
amateur.  Want  to  start  in  now? 

NEW.     Might  as  well,  eh? 

JACK.  Come  —  business,  business.  (Pushes 
centre-table  back,  leaving  clear  space.)  Where's 
Shakespeare?  (Rummages  among  books  on  shelf.) 

NEW.  Yes;  you'd  best  have  him  handy.  Ethel 
copied  my  part  in  her  best  Wellesley  slant,  and  I've 
made  out  about  one  word  in  ten.  (Produces  a  much- 
crumpled  manuscript.) 

JACK.  Here  we  are — "Enter  Ferdinand,  with  a 
logon  his  shoulder."  Props — props;  where's  your 
log?  (Hands  him  Indian  Chib: — business  of  getting 
it  poised  on  his  shoulder.)  Come,  now,  Ferdinand, 
your  lines — your  lines. 

NEW.     "There  be  some  spots  are  painful " 

(He  rubs  shoulder.) 

JACK.     Good  Lord !     What?     Say  that  again. 
NEW.      "There  be  some  spots  are  painful- 


That  means  his  shoulder,  doesn't  it,  where  he's 
carrying  logs?  I  supposed  so;  that's  why  I  rubbed 
it. 

JACK.     The  line  happens  to  be,  "There  are  some 
sports  are  painful " 


ri6  A  Bit  of  Instruction 

NEW.  "Sports"— "Spots"?  Hang  Ethel's  writ 
ing!  I've  learned  that  "spots";  and  it's  the  only 
thing  in  the  whole  confounded  speech  I  understood. 
I  thought  the  beggar  had  lamed  himself,  piling  up 
logs,  don't  you  know?  Hang  it,  Despard!  He  says 
he's  lame.  Doesn't  he  say  he's  piling  up  logs  "upon 
a  sore  injunction"? 

JACK.  (In  ecstasies  of  laughter.}  0,read  it  that 
way — read  it  that  way.  A  new  reading  is  a  precious 
thing,  you  know;  and  it's  not  much  queerer  than 
some  of  the  new  Juliets. 

NEW.  I  say — Let's  skip  that  speech,  anyhow. 
What  I  really  want  to  coach  up  on  is  that  rigmarole 
he  has  to  reel  off  to  Miranda.  They've  run  it  all 
together  for  me,  you  know,  because  they  say  that  if 
Miranda  once  stopped  me  I'd  never  get  up  steam 
again.  Ethel  won't  have  me  in  it  at  any  price;  she 
says  I  make  love  like  a  cigar -store  Indian. 

JACK.  Apparently  she  has  critical  gifts.  Fire 
away. 

NEW.     "  0 ,  my  father.  I've  broke  your  head ' ' 

JACK.  Hold  up!  In  the  name  of  Stratford, 
what's  the  matter  with  your  text? 

NEW.  (Aggrievedly  showing  MS.)  Confound 
it,  man,  see  for  yourself.  "0,  my  father,  I've  broke 
your  head  to " 

JACK.  Man  alive,  that's  the  cue — that's  Miran 
da's  speech. 


A  Bit  of  Instruction  117 

NEW.  "Well,  why  in  Heligoland  don't  she  say 
"cue"?  And,  besides,  Miranda  didn't  break  her 
father's  head,  did  she? 

JACK.  Not  according  to  Shakespeare.  She  says 
she  "broke  her  father's  hest"— her  father's  "hest"— • 
behest — command,  you  know. 

NEW.  I  wish  she'd  talk  English,  then.  I  don't 
care  what  it  is,  as  long  as  I  don't  have  to  break  it. 
(Reads  speech  with  queer  effects  of  punctuation,  and 
absolute  uncomprehension  of  sense,  as — ) 

"Admired  Miranda — 

Indeed  the  top  of  admiration  worth — 

What's  dearest  in  the  worldfull  many  a  lady  I  have 

I  have  eyed  with  best  regard  and  many  a  time. 

The  harmony  of  their  tongues. — Hath  into  bondage 

Brought  my  too — too " 

something-or-other  "ears  for  several  virtues."  (Out 
of  breath.)  Whew!  How  does  the  thing  go  on? 
I  say,  Despard,  what  gestures  go  with  that  kind  of 
speech — eh? 

JACK.     On  my  soul,  Newbury,  I  don't  know. 

NEW.  Well,  no  matter;  we  can  pick  them  out 
afterward.  Let's  see — 0 — 

"I  have  liked  several  women?    Never !  with  so  full 
soul 

But  some  defect  in  her  did  quarrel ; 

But,  Oyou!  Oyou!— 


n8  A  Bit  of  Instruction 

JACK.     Man — man! — stop  it,  can't  you? 

NEW.     (Bewildered  and  aggrieved.)     Stop  what? 

JACK.     Stop  the  execution. 

NEW.     What  execution? 

JACK.  I  wonder  if  you  have  the  least  idea  how 
that  fellow  felt? 

NEW.     What  fellow? 

JACK.     Ferdinand. 

NEW.  Felt?  Why,  the  chap  wasn't  a  real  chap, 
you  know. 

JACK.  Man,  he  was  realer  than  you  or  I;  and 
he'll  last  a  blamed  sight  longer.  Put  yourself  in  the 
fellow's  place,  can't  you?  That's  what  you've  got  to 
do — not  stand  up  there  like  a  graven  image,  reeling 
off  lines  out  of  a  book.  Can't  you  see  them  there, — 
him  and  the  girl?  It's  morning,  you  know, — the 
sea's  out  there — (New.  turns  bewilderedly  to  see 
where.) — the  sea,  all  shining  in  the  sun; — and  she's 
standing  there, — just  a  girl,  you  know — just  a  girl — • 
with  a  girl's  eyes; — just  a  slip  of  a  thing,  all  in 
white,  her  eyes  as  blue  as  the  sea,  and  the  white 
stuff  falling  back  from  her  soft,  pure  little  throat, 
and  her  yellow  hah-  all  blowing  about  in  the  sea- 
wind,  .  .  . 

NEW.     (In  a  daze.)     I  say,  will  she  look  like  that? 

JACK.  She  did  look  like  that, — she  will  look  like 
that — thank  God  and  Shakespeare — as  long  as  youth 
is  youth.  And  you  stand  there,  worshiping  her,  and 


A  Bit  of  Instruction  119 

aching  for  her ; — and  one  minute  you  want  to  crush 
her — here — (With  a  motion  of  straining  a  woman  to 
his  breast.) — and  the  next,  you  want  to  grovel  there 
at  her  little  feet,  and  cry  your  heart  out ;  and  her  big 
eyes  are  pitying  you, — and  something  else — and  she 
herself  doesn't  know  what  else — and  it's  going  to  be 
yours  to  teach  her — yours,  and  no  other  man's  on 
God's  earth — and  your  heart  just  tears  itself  to  your 
lips — and  you  say  to  her : 

Admired  Miranda — 
Indeed  the  top  of  admiration, — worth 
What's  dearest  in  the  world. — Full  many  a  lady 
I  have  eyed  with  best  regard ;  and  many  a  time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear :  for  several  virtues 
Have  I  liked  several  women :  never  any 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  on  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owned, 
And  put  it  to  the  foil :  but  you, — 0  you, — 
So  perfect  and  so  peerless,  art  created 
Of  every  creature's  best. — Hear  my  soul  speak. 
The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you  did  my  heart 
Fly  to  your  service: — there " 

NEW.     0,  for  God's  sake — stop  it,  can't  you? 
JACK.     (In  his  turn  bewildered.)     Stop  what? 
NEW.     I  can't  stand  it!     0,  I  see  now, — I  under 
stand  it — she  couldn't  help  it.     Poor  little  Ethel — 


I2O  A  Bit  of  Instruction 

she  couldn't  help  it !  And  it — it  may  not  be  so  bad. 
You're  a  gentleman — if  you  are  an  actor,  you're  a 
gentleman, — but  if  you  don't — if  you're  not  good  to 
her, — by  God — I 

JACK.  (In  cold  anger  and  amazement.)  Do  you 
mind  telling  me,  Newbury,  what  you  are  talking 
about? 

NEW.  Talking  about? — I'm  talking  about  my 
cousin  Ethel. 

JACK.     Your  cousin  Ethel? 

NEW.  My  cousin  Ethel — the  poor  little  girl  who's 
been  looking  at  you, — and  you  know  it — who's  been 
looking  at  you  for  weeks,  with  just  such  eyes  as — as 
you  said — my  cousin  Ethel — the  girl  who  wrote  you 
that  letter  that  I 

JACK.  On  my  honor,  I  don't  know  what  you  are 
talking  about. 

NEW.     You  don't  know — my  cousin  Ethel? 

JACK.     I  never  saw  nor  heard  of  her  in  my  life. 

NEW.  Why,  man,  you  must  have  seen  her. 
She's  at  every  last  matinee  you  play.  She's  the 
little  girl  with  the  yellow  hair  and  the  big  blue  eyes : 
— she's  only  eighteen; — she  always  has  a  bunch  of 
violets  pinned  to  her  seal-skin  muff; — she's  always 
eating  sugared  things,  out  of  a  silver  filigree  box. 
Why,  do  you  mean  to  say 

JACK.  I  mean  to  say,  my  dear  fellow,  that  I  sup 
pose  at  a  hundred  or  so  matinees  a  year  there  are  a 


A  Bit  of  Instruction  121 

hundred  or  so  such  girls ;  and  I  never  saw  one  of 
them. 

NEW.  But  you  said  you  never  had  heard  of  her; 
and  she  signed  her  full  name  to  that  letter  she  sent 
you ;  she  told  Kit  so. 

JACK.     What  letter? 

NEW.  She  told  my  sister  Kit  about  it.  Kit  told 
me.  She's  no  sneak,  Kit;  she's  an  awfully  good 
sort;  but  she's  older  than  Ethel;  and  she  was  scared 
blue  when  Ethel  told  her  she'd  sent  that  letter. 
You  know,  old  chap,  there  are  actors — that 

JACK.  0,  yes, — I  know.  They're  the  kind  that 
get  into  the  newspapers. 

NEW.  And  she  thought — Ethel  did — she  told  Kit 
she  knew — that  you  were  all  the  time  playing  just  to 
her — like  Garrick  did,  you  know,  to  Ada  Ingot; — 
and  she  wrote  to  you  and  said  that  she — that  if 
you 

JACK.  Poor  little  girl!  She  wrote  that?  Poor 
little  girl!  Where's  her  mother? 

NEW.     She  died  two  years  ago. 

JACK.  Poor  little  girl!  I  say,  do  you  know  when 
she  sent  that  letter,  Newbury? 

NEW.  Yesterday  morning.  She  told  Kit,  last 
night. 

JACK.  Yesterday?  I  remember.  (Opens  table 
drcnver.)  I  remember.  I  brought  home  a  pocketful 
of  things ;  and  I  was  so  fagged,  I  fired  them  all  in 


122  A  Bit  of  Instruction 

here,  and  then  cold  forgot  them.     {He  gathers  up  a 
number  of  letters,  from  draiver,  and  holds  them  all 

out,  to  Newbury.)     Do  you  mind  seeing — if 

(Newbury,  after  a  moment's  search,  selects 
one,  and  holds  it  out  to  him.) 

JACK.     There's  the  fire. 

(Newlury  slowly  goes  to  fireplace,  and 
thrusts  the  letter  into  the  coals.  Both  men 
stand  silently  watching  it  burn.) 

NEW.  (Gripping  Jack's  hand  hard.)  Thanks, 
old  chap.  You — I — 0,  damn  it,  you  know  what  I 
mean.  Thanks,  old  chap.  You  see,  I've  known 
her  ever  since  she  was  in  pinafores,  and — I — (Dashes 
his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  finishes,  chokingly.) — 
I Thanks,  old  chap. 

JACK.  0,  that's  all  right,  Newbury.  And — look 
here, — it'll  be  all  right, — you '11  see.  All  girls  dream 
dreams.  It'll  be  all  right. 

NEW.  (He  puts  on  his  coat,  and  prepares  to  go 
out,  as  he  speaks.)  I — I'd  like  to — but  I  can't; — 
you  know,  don't  you,  Despard?  (He  crosses  to  Jack, 
hesitatingly.)  I'm  an  ass  to  ask  you,  I  know — but 
you  don't  suppose, — if  you  ever  did  meet  her — hang 
it — she's  such  a  dear  little  thing. 

JACK.  (Opens  a  locket  that  hangs  at  his  watch- 
chain,  and  holds  it  up.)  See  that?  Well,  that  is 
the  little  girl  I'm  going  to  marry,  if  ever  the  Lord 


A  Bit  of  Instruction  133 

and  the  managers  let  us  stay  in  the  same  town  long 
enough.  Satisfied? 

NEW.  Why,  I  know  that  face,  don't  I?  Yes. 
By  Jove,  that's  Maisie  Marston,  of  the 

JACK.     Yes,  that  is  Miss  Marston. 

NEW.  (Musingly.)  Maisie  Marston — Why,  she's 
the  one,  when  I  was  in  Yale,  two  years  ago 

JACK.  (With  a  dry  ness  of  voice.)  Yes;  she's 
the  one.  She  showed  me  that  letter  you  wrote  her. 

NEW.     (Aghast.)     She — showed  you — that  letter? 

JACK.  Yes.  She's  a  way  of  showing  me — all  her 
letters  of  that  sort. 

NEW.  (After  a  pause,  strips  off  both  his  coats.) 
It's  all  I  can  do,  old  chap, — you  know, — hut  if  you 
like,  I'll  stand  up  to  you,  without  the  gloves. 

JACK.  Put  on  your  coat.  Two  years  are  two 
years.  And,  as  you  say,  you  were  only  an  ass. 

NEW.  (Fervently.)  Thanks,  old  chap!  (He 
puts  on  Ms  coat  and  starts  to  go.  In  doorway.) 
Good-night,  Despard. 

JACK.  Good-night.  0,  I  say,  Newbury!  If 
you're  hereabout  to-morrow  night,  look  in,  won't 
you,  and  we'll  have  another  go  at  Ferdinand. 

NEW.     Why, — if  I  may, — why,  thanks,  old  chap ! 

(Newbury  goes  out.     Despard  follows  him 
to  door:    calls  '•'•Find  your  \vay,  all  right?" 
1  s  voice  answers  from  below,  "0,  yes, 


124  A  Bit  of  Instruction 

thanks."  The  lower  door  closes.  Despard 
closes  his  own  door.  He  Uoivs  out  the  lamp, 
leaving  only  the  red  glow  of  the  firelight.  He 
crosses  sloivly  to  the  mantel,  and  stands  looking 
down  into  the  fire.  After  a  moment's  pause, 
he  opens  the  locket,  and  stands  looking  down, 
musingly,  on  the  pictured  face. 

(CUETALNT.) 


A  SONG  AT  THE  CASTLE 


A  ROMANTIC  COMEDY 
IN  ONE  ACT 


A   Song  at  the  Castle* 


CHAEACTEKS. 

CORNWALLIS,  Viceroy  of  Ireland,  and  Commander  - 
in-Chief  of  the  British  forces  in  Ireland. 

DESMOND  O'MoiRNE,  a  young  Irish  singer. 

COL.  HUMPHREY  MORTON,  of  the  British  army. 

SIR  KICHARD  WILDE,  Member  of  the  English  Par 
liament. 

MARQUIS  EAOUL  DE  LA  VALIERE,  an  exiled  noble 
man  of  France. 

A  SERVANT. 

LADY  WYNDHAM,  a  widow,  sister  to  Lord  Cornwallis. 

EILEEN  FITZGERALD,  the  ward  of  Lord  Cornwallis. 

Time:  Early  evening  of  a  night  in  July,  1798. 

Place :  Dublin  Castle ;  the  state  drawing-room. 

The  curtain,  rising,  discovers  Lady  Wyndham,  in 
a  stately  reception-gown ;  and  a  servant,  at  the  door, 
announcing — 

*,This  play  was  written  in  collaboration  with  Percy 
Wallace  Mackaye. 

127 


128  A  Song  at  the  Castle 

"The  Marquis  de  la  Yaliere." 

YALIERE.  (Entering  and  bowing.}  Madame, 
your  ladyship's  most  humbly  obedient.  Your  lady 
ship,  it  fears  me,  I  am  arrived — Je  vous  prie  milles 
pardons — early,  un  peu.  But  one  has  informed  me 
that  this  was  the  hour 

LADY  W.  You  are  most  welcome  and  waited  for, 
Marquis.  This  is  the  time. 

YALIERE.  Merci,  Madame,  and  your — your  lady 
ship's  daughter 

LADY  W.  Not  my  daughter,  nor  my  anything, 
thank  Heaven!  That  wilful  girl,  who  is  my 
brother's  ward!  Lady  Eileen  will  be  with  us  in  a 
moment.  And  this  is  for  her? 

YALIERE.  (Who  lias  been  obsequiously  proffering 
a  small)  silver -bound  box.)  For  Mademoiselle 
Eileen,  Madame,  with  birthday  gratulations.  They 
are  mere  nothings,  mere  diamonds;  they  cannot 
speak  my  admirations ;  but  if  your  ladyship  shall  add 
one  look  to  brighten  them! — Ah,  speak  well  for 
me  to  the  young  lady  un  seul  mot,  I- — Pardieu! 
Madame,  I  die  in  English,  but  I  will  live  most 
gratefully  in  French ! 

LADY  W.  I  should  be  too  glad  to  speak  in  your 
behalf,  if  it  were  possible.  But  Lud!  Marquis,  such 
a  girl !  Like  a  firefly  on  the  breeze,  now  a  sparkle, 
then  whiff!  and  away  again.  She's  just  a  fancy 
caught  in  the  flesh.  And  fancy  that  nothing  would 


A  Song  at  the  Castle  129 

do,  but  she  must  settle  this  most  serious,  most 
momentous  question  of  the  giving  of  her  hand,  on 
her  birthday ;  and  she  must  give  out  that  fate  may 
decide  it,  according  to  the  gifts  her  suitors  bring — 
the  romantic  minx — and  of  those  suitors  you  are  but 
one,  Marquis. 

VALIERE.  But  the  worth  of  the  giver — Mademoi 
selle,  sans  doute,  you  think — she  will  possibly  con 
sider  that? 

LADY  W.  Perhaps,  yes ;  but  only  as  indicated  by 
the  worth  of  the  gift.  And  her  standards  of  worth 
— I  warn  you  her  standards  are  fantastic  standards  of 
her  own  foolish  making ! 

VALIERE.  (Sighing  with  relief.)  Ah!  for  a 
moment  let  my  hopes  be  bright  as  my  diamonds! 
And  this  decision ? 

LADY  W.  Will  be  made  within  the  hour ;  the 
chit  promises  it!  And  as  it  still  lacks  the  hour 
before  dinner,  Marquis,  may  I  show  you  to  my 
brother's  library,  where  the  presents  are  to  be  laid  for 
the  judging? 

VALIERE.  I  attend  your  Ladyship.  Lord  Corn- 
wallis  is  most  hospitable — most  hospitable!  (Exit 
Lady  W.)  But — she  is  an  Irish  barbarian,  this  girl! 
Down  what  roads  must  a  gentleman  travel — Pardieu! 
— when  he  seeks  a  fortune!  (Exit.) 

(Enter,  from  door  back,  or  right,  the  foot 
man,  who  opens  his  mouth  to  make  announce- 


130  A  Song  at  the  Castle 

ment,  but   is   shoved  aside  ly   Sir   Richard 
Wilde,  who  enters  talking  with  Col.  Morton.) 

WILDE.     You  met  her  at  London,  eh? 

MORTON.  Yes,  when  she  was  at  school  there, 
before  this  damnable  rebellion  broke  out.  I've  been 
here  now  two  months  under  Cornwallis,  since  his 
Majesty  appointed  him  Commander-in-Chief  and 
Viceroy  of  Ireland;  it  seems  two  centuries  that  I've 
heard  nothing  but  the  brogue  of  "Blood!"  in  my 
ears,  yelled  by  these  starveling,  lank-dog  Irishmen. 
I  believe  they're  as  mad  as  the  French  jackals  that 
bark  about  the  guillotine  at  Paris,  But  she — ah, 
Dick!  She 

WILDE.  Has  been  a  Venus  in  thy  midnight,  a 
Beatrice  in  thy  Inferno,  an  angel  in  thy  Job's  tor 
ments,  eh,  man? — eh?  Egad,  Humphrey,  thou  art 
strong  with  the  Romeo  aroma.  Great  stuff,  boy,  but 
stuff  to  keep  corked  for  the  ladies.  It's  more 
precious  to  them  than  attar  of  roses,  I  can  tell  you! 

MORTON.     Look  you,  Dick 

WILDE.  Gad's  life!  and  it  seems  only  yesterday 
we  were  at  fisticuffs  at  Eton,  you  and  I,  about  the 
grocer's  daughter;  and  now  to  think  we  are  at 
sword's  points  in  an  Irish  castle,  about  the  heiress  of 
a  hundred  thousand. 

MORTON.  Damn  the  heiress,  it's  the  girl !  •  I  tell 
you,  she's  perfection. 


A  Song  at  the  Castle  131 

WILDE.  Capital!  Why,  then,  let's  split  the 
difference.  You  want  the  girl,  I  want  the  heiress. 
Well,  let  each  have  his  desire.  Brief  and  plain, 
Hump,  my  card  bill  has  run  high,  and  my  seat  in 
Parliament  is  likely  to  become  a  bench  in  jail,  with  a 
bailiff  for  a  valet.  So  in  this  little  contest  for  the 
hand  of  Mistress  Fitzgerald,  I'll  bet  two  to  one  on 
you — and  call  it  five  thousand  pounds.  Then  if  you 
win,  you'll  have  the  girl  and  the  lion's  share  of  the 
coin;  if  I  win,  why,  you'll  have  some  of  the  spoil, 
and,  for  a  consideration,  I  think  we  could  arrange 
about  the  girl. 

MORTON.  Damnation,  Man !  Do  you  take  me  for 
a  rake-hell  like  yourself?  (Crosses  in  anger.  Wilde 
lightly  laughs,  and  takes  snuff.  After  a  slight 
pause — )  Well,  and  what  chance  have  you,  anyway, 
Dick? 

WILDE.  The  girl  is  just  eighteen,  mind  you. 
Now,  bluff  and  a  baronetcy  are  my  cards,  and  they 
trump  credulity  and  romance.  Why,  what  do  you 
think  this  is?  (Shows  a  small  box.) 

MORTON.     Your  bid,  in  this  wooing  bout? 

WILDE.  Ay!  and  what,  think  you,  is  in  it? 
Eubies  and  ivory?  Folly!  I  am  playing  Bassanio 
to  my  little  Lady  Portia.  So  in  this  casket,  lo!  for 
sixpence,  I  bring — forget-me-nots,  'fore  Gad,  forget- 
me-nots!  (The  doors  are  thrown  open.) 

MORTON.     Hist !    Here  comes  his  lordship. 


132  A  Song  at  the  Castle 

WILDE.     Cornwallis? 
MORTON.     Cornwallis. 

(Enter  Cornwallis  and  Valiere.) 

CORNWALLIS.  I  hear  they  keep  it  so  hot  in 
Paris,  Marquis,  that  all  the  town  has  the  rabies. 
By  the  way,  is  it  catching,  that  madness? 

VALIERE.  Indeed,  I  have  not  heen  bit,  my  lord. 
All  the  gentlemen  have  left  town.  Ma  foi,  it  is  not 
safe  except  for  bourgeoisie. 

CORNWALLIS.  What !  does  not  Monsieur  le  Eaoul 
de  la  Valiere  find  his  name  his  fortress?  Ah, 
Colonel,  welcome  to  you!  So  you  are  in  these  lists? 

MORTON.  Entering  them,  my  lord,  in  hope  to 
be  a  guardian  to  your  ward.  Permit  me  to  present 
you  to  an  old  friend  and  new  rival  of  mine.  Your 
lordship — Sir  Eichard  Wilde. 

CORNWALLIS.  You  are  very  welcome,  sir.  I  had 
the  good  fortune  to  know  your  father  at  the  misfor 
tune  in  America.  He  helped  me  jump  rope  with 
Washington  in  New  Jersey.  He  was  well-named  and 
daring. 

WILDE.  Egad,  sir,  his  son  is  more  so,  to  take  a 
tilt  in  this  tourney  for  Mistress  Fitzgerald.  (Look 
ing  at  Valiere.)  But  I  fear  the  odds  are  against  us, 
Dick.  The  barber's  should  have  been  our  armoury! 

CORNWALLIS.  Your  pardon,  Marquis ;  Sir  Kich- 
ard  Wilde — the  Marquis  de  la  Valiere. 


A  Song  at  the  Castle  133 

WILDE.     Devilish  glad  to  know  you,  Sir. 

VALIEEE.  Your  most  obedient,  monsieur.  Ah, 
Monsieur  le  Colonel.  (Dick  and  Valiere  talk  aside. 
Morton  offers  Cornwallis  snuff.) 

MORTON.  (Stiffly.)  We  have  met.  (To  Corn 
wallis.)  Does  your  lordship  consider  the  rebellion  at 
an  end? 

CORNWALLIS.  If  hoping  were  believing,  yes. 
The  majority  of  the  state  prisoners  have  already 
offered  to  acknowledge  their  offences ;  but  the  Irish 
parliament  cries  for  Irish  heads.  Yet  I  think  they 
blink,  after  all,  the  real  mischief: — the  deep-laid 
conspiracy  to  revolutionize  Ireland  on  the  principles 
of  France. 

MORTON.  The  very  point,  my  lord.  Even  now 
report  says  that  the  French  are  preparing  two  secret 
expeditions  for  the  invasion  of  this  country. 

CORNWALLIS.  And  that's  a  secret  bugled  by  the 
winds. 

VALIERE.  Ah,  mais,  Messieurs,  those  be  French 
footmen,  not  French  gentlemen. 

CORNWALLIS.  True,  Sir;  but  footmen  mounted 
on  their  masters,  who  foot  it  across  the  seas !  But, 
my  friends,  I  pray  you  have  done  with  politics ;  this 
is  a  time  to  settle  gentler  affairs,  and  at  this  moment 
there  is  more  at  stake  than  empty  empires. 

WILDE.  (Aside  to  Morton.)  Now  the  old  boy 
talks. 


134  A  Song  at  the  Castle 

CORNWALLIS.  The  question  pends — what  gentle 
man  in  this  room  shall  sway  the  heart  of  a  lady ;  and 
gentlemen,  nothing — not  even  swords'  points — may 
avail  in  this  contest ;  only  the  decision  of  my  dear 
ward's  lips. 

WILDE.  (To  Morton.)  Gad,  one  would  think  his 
lordship  included  himself  under  "gentlemen." 

(Here  Eileen  starts  to  run  in,  but  catching 
sight  of  the  suitors,  scurries  lack  and  peeps  in 
from  the  edge  of  scene.) 

CORNWALLIS.  So  we  must  have  patience  until 
the  lady  arrives.  It  cannot  be  long ;  for  this  is  the 
appointed  time.  And  Mistress  Eileen  is  not  one  to 
coquet  with  a  promise. 

VALIERE.  Probablement  she  is  still  dressing,  my 
lord.  The  ladies  are  more  careful  of  their  beauties ; 
they  are  always  different  from  the  men. 

CORJTWALLIS.  God  save  us  then,  Marquis;  what 
Amazons  your  French  ladies  must  be !  But,  gentle 
men,  while  we  wait,  permit  that  I  show  you  where  to 
lay  your  gifts.  By  this  way  is  to  the  gallery.  After 
you,  Sir. 

WILDE.  Amazingly  fine  lodgings,  these,  your 
lordship. 

(Just  as  the  last  has  passed  through  the 
door,  and  Cornwallis  is  about  to  follow,  Eileen 
trips  stealthily  across  the  room,  trying  to  call 
Cornwallis9  attention  by  whispering  loudly — 


A  Song  at  the  Castle  135 

"My  lord! — My  lord!"  Failing,  she  runs 
and  pulls  him  by  the  sleeve,  just  as  he  is  slowly 
passing  through  the  doorway.) 

EILEEN.     My  lord !     My  lord ! 

COKNWALLIS.     You,  Eileen! 

EILEEN.  What  a  shocking  narrow  escape!  Ah, 
tell  me,  my  lord,  whether  to  laugh  or  cry.  A 
French  muff,  a  London  walking  stick,  and  a  big 
British  army-gun — all  in  pursuit  of  one  poor  maid ! 
Dear,  my  lord,  what  shall  I  do? 

CORNWALLIS.  I  will  return  at  once,  and  we  will 
talk  of  this  and  much  else !  But  first  I  must  usher 
these  articles  you  mention  where  they  may  leave  your 
gifts. 

EILEEN.  The  gifts — ay,  to  be  sure !  Have  they 
brought  many?  Are  they  vastly  fine?  Ah,  my 
lord,  is  it  permitted  to  me  to  take  the  gifts,  and 
leave  the  gentlemen? 

(Enter  Right,  Lady  Wyndham,  hurriedly.) 

LADY  W.  Eileen!  And  so  I've  tracked  you  at 
last,  Maid  Eunaway ! 

CORNWALLIS.  I  will  return  within  the  moment. 
You  will  wait  for  me? 

EILEEN.  In  this  room,  my  lord ;  and  wholly  on 
your  pleasure. 

(Exit  Cornwallis — Ladies  curtsy.) 

LADY  W.  (Eyeing  Eileen  with  a  look  of  reproba 
tion.)  Well! 


136  A  Song  at  the  Castle 

EILEEN.     (Innocently.)     Well? 

LADY  W.  And  where  have  you  been,  Mistress 
Dalliance? 

EILEEN.     Up  in  the  tower. 

LADY  W.  (Throwing  up  her  hands.)  The  tower ! 
I'll  warrant  me  thou  art  a  miracle  of  dust!  Lud, 
child!  Do  you  forget  this  is  your  birthday?  Do 
you  forget  that  this  very  hour  you  have  to  decide  the 
question  of  all  your  life — the  question  of  your  hus 
band? 

EILEEN.  Well,  for  what  was  I  up  in  the  tower 
but  to  catch  the  earliest  glimpse  of  them? 

LADY  W.     Of  whom? 

EILEEN.     Of  my  husbands,  to  be  sure. 

LADY  W.     Madcap ! 

EILEEN.  I've  been  watching  hours  for  their 
arrival.  (Laughing  merrily.)  Such  wooers!  For 
all  the  world,  they  came  like  the  procession  in  the 
fairy  tale,  that  dangled  after  the  golden  goose.  But 
they  shall  find  me  of  another  feather.  There,  dear 
soul,  do  I  shock  thee?  Indeed,  then,  I  won't  tell 
them  I'm  no  goose!  How  many  are  there? 

LADY  W.  Why,  there's  Monsieur  de  la  Valiere,  a 
gentleman  of  the  highest  manners 

EILEEN.  De  la  Valiere!  He's  a  fortune  for  a 
lady's  wig-maker,  not  a  lady's  self!  But  how  many 
other  guests  are  there  for  the  dinner?  Is — I  pray 
you — is  Mr.  O'Moirne  arrived  yet? 


A  Song  at  the  Castle  137 

LADY  W.     Is  who  arrived? 

EILEEN.     I  said  Desmond  O'Moirne. 

LADY  W.     And  what  man  is  he? 

EILEEN.     The  manliest  in  Ireland. 

LADY  W.  Desmond  O'Moirne  —  Preserve  us! 
Eileen,  you  never  mean  that  singer  in  the  opera — 
that  hothead  lad — that  Irish  rebel,  whose  father  was 
hanged — ay,  hanged  in  this  very  city — for  high 
treason.  Girl !  You  have  never  been  so  mad  as  to 
bid  such  a  guest  to  Dublin  Castle? 

EILEEN.  Ay,  have  I — and  I  stand  to  it!  And 
there  will  sit  at  my  birthday  dinner  no  nobler  guest 
than  the  lad  with-  the  voice  in  his  heart  and  the 
heart  in  his  voice — his  sole  leaving  of  a  ruined  for 
tune — and  who  with  his  voice  brought  Dublin  to  his 
feet,  till  the  English  murdered — ay,  murdered  his 
father,  I  say,  and  sent  him  over  sea.  But  I  have 
Desmond  O'Moirne 's  promise  for  my  birthday 
night;  and  Ireland  knows  what  an  O'Moirne  means 
by  a  promise !  He 

LADY  W.     Promised  you?     0  Lud !  Lud ! 

EILEEN.  We  spoke  of  my  birthday ;  that  birthday 
that  was  to  bring  my  birthright.  And  he  pledged 
me  for  that  birthday  the  gift  of  a  song ;  and  he  will 
be  here  to  sing  it ! 

LADY  W.  Are  you  daft,  child?  Why,  the  man's 
an  exile;  he's  in  England. 

EILEEN.     But  he  will  come. 


138  A  Song  at  the  Castle 

LADY  W.  Travel  a  hundred  miles  and  risk  his 
neck  for  a  song ! 

EILEEN.     But  he  will  come. 

LADY  W.  Heavenly  goodness !  but  he  must  not ! 
You  hear !  He  must  not !  What !  He  sing  for  your 
birthday  dinner? — He, — a  beggar,  an  Irish  beggar, 
his  estates  confiscated,  he — you're  mad,  child! 
You're  mad! 

EILEEN.     But  he  shall  come. 

LADY  W.  0  Heaven's  patience!  But  he  is  not 
come !  and  I  believe  you  are  frightening  me  to  exas 
peration  only  for  your  wicked  sport!  May  God  be 
thanked  I  am  not  a  man  with  a  hankering  to  be  your 
husband!  He  has  not  come! — And  I'll  make  his 
welcome  sure,  should  he  come!  (Exit.) 

EILEEN.  But  he  will  come!  And  the  gift  he 
brings  shall  be  my  gift,  though  my  heart  is  the  price 

that  buys  it ! 

(Enter   Cornwallis.) 

CORNWALLIS.  My  thanks  that  you  waited  me — 
and  alone !  I  have  been  impatient  to  speak  with  you 
all  day. 

EILEEN.     I  am  at  your  service,  my  lord ! 

CORNWALLIS.  "My  lord?"  Why  must  to  the 
heavy  burden  of  my  state  be  added  that  word  from 
your  lips,  Eileen?  Will  you  not  call  me — something 
else?  A  thousand  to  whose  ears  I  give  commands 
have  tongues  that  lisp  "your  lordship."  Where  I 


A  Song  at  the  Castle  139 

would  take  commands,  it  is  for  me  to  say  "my 
lady."  Then,  my  little  Lady  Eileen,  will  you  not  be 
she  to  fill  an  empty  title? 

EILEEN.  (Evidently  a  Mt  startled  at  Ms  manner. ) 
Ah,  my — Sir,  I'll  wager  you  could  tutor  those 
younger  gentlemen  in  pretty  speech.  Ah,  would  you 
could !  Their  compliments  but  woo  to  drowsiness ! 

CORNWALLIS.  I  would  that  all  my  white  hairs 
were  but  in  my  wig,  as  theirs  are.  Think  you,  you 
could  like  me  better  then,  Eileen? 

EILEEN.  Faith,  not  I,  my  lord — I  mean,  I  mean, 
dear  guardian !  I  would  not  have  you  other  than  you 
are! 

COKNWALLIS.  My  girl,  there's  something  in  a 
soldier's  life  that  never  lets  youth's  fire  go  out. 
Powder  and  the  flash  of  swords,  the  jostle  of  life  and 
death,  the  fording  of  streams  and  ocean  wanderings, 
and  all  that  makes  the  rough  romance  of  war — these 
things  blow  off  the  settling  ashes  from  the  living 
ember,  and  leave  still  a  heart-leap  at  three-score. 

EILEEN.  I  am  sure  of  it.  There's  no  calling  so 
glorious  as  a  soldier's,  unless — unless 

CORNWALLIS.     Unless? 

EILEEN.     Unless — maybe — a  singer's! 

CORNWALLIS.     A  singer's,  child? 

EILEEN.  Ay,  Sir,  a  singer's !  For  a  singer  may 
wake  the  fiery  call  to  battle  in  a  thousand  hearts,  and 
make  a  thousand  soldiers ! 


140  A  Song  at  the  Castle 

CORNWALLIS.  "When  was  a  singer  ever  a  soldier? 
But,  child,  I  did  not  ask  this  hour  to  talk  of  soldiers ; 
Eileen,  have  you  any  memory  of  my  wife,  who  died 
while  yet  you  were  a  child? 

EILEEN.  Aye,  indeed,  dear  guardian,  I  remem 
ber  her ;  a  lovely  lady. 

CORSTWALLIS.  A  lovely  lady !  I  met  her  at  your 
age ;  she  was  much  as  you  are ;  you  are  like  her :  so 

like  her  that (Eileen  turns  aivay.)  Nay, 

child,  do  I  weary  you? 

EILEEK.  Believe  me,  no,  my  lord;  I  but  remem 
bered  how  swift  the  hour  was  passing. 

CORNWALLIS.  Before  it  passes,  Eileen,  will  you 
not  ask  me  what  I  bring  you  as  a  birthday  gift? 

EILEEK.  Ah,  Sir !  I  cannot  fancy  what  there  is 
left  in  your  generosity  for  you  to  give  me. 

CORNWALLIS.  Yet  without  the  gift  I  bring,  how 
incomplete  were  any  woman's  joy! 

EILEEN.     Eiddles,  my  lord!     What  is  this  gift? 

CORNWALLIS.  What  every  woman  desires  most  in 
this  world. 

EILEEK.     And  what  is  that? 

CORNWALLIS.  What  but  her  own  will!  I  give 
you  for  your  birthday  gift,  Eileen,  the  promise  of  a 
soldier  to  grant  to  you  this  day,  whatever  you  may 
ask  of  my  power ;  and  this  day  it  is  my  good  fortune 
to  command  all  temporal  things  in  Ireland. 

EILEEN.     (Kisses  his  hand.)     Ah!     Thanks,  my 


A  Song  at  the  Castle  141 

lord — a  thousand,  thousand  thanks!  You  have 
brought  a  far  more  splendid  gift  to  my  birthday  than 
any  of  the  three  who  call  themselves  my  suitors. 

CORNWALLIS.  Three  suitors?  Eileen,  what  if 
there  were  four? 

EILEEN.  Four!  Has  another, — is  any  new  guest 
come? 

CORNWALLIS.  A  new  suitor,  so  I  am  told.  And 
he  has  already  presented  his  gift,  Eileen. 

EILEEN.  You  have  seen  him?  Ah,  who  is  he, 
dear  my  lord? 

CORNWALLIS.  One  whom  you  know  nearly,  and 
he  hopes  dearly. 

EILEEN.  And  you  say  he  is  here  now? — here?  Is 
he — is  he  from  England? 

CORNWALLIS.     He  is,  from  England. 

EILEEN.     Ah,  where  is  he?     My  lord,  where  is  he? 

CORNWALLIS.  He  has  fears.  He  is  not  as  your 
other  suitors,  in  aspect  or  in  nature. 

EILEEN.  Ah!  that  he  is  not,  indeed!  A  thou 
sand  times  more  noble ! 

CORNWALLIS.  Great  Heaven!  You  say  that, 
child?  Dear  child — Eileen — then  you  have  guessed 
— his  name? 

EILEEN.     Ah,  Sir,  it  is — it  is 

CORNWALLIS.  Your  loving  servant — Charles 
Cornwallis. 

EILEEN.     My  lord ! 


142  A  Song  at  the  Castle 

CORNWALLIS.  A  time-scarred  soldier,  Eileen — 
Charles  Cornwallis. 

EILEEN.  0  my  lord!  My  lord!  (Covers  her 
face  until  her  hands.) 

CORNWALLIS.  She  did  not  gness  his  name — 
'Sdeath !  I'm  old — I'm  old — and  foolisher  than  old ! 
Poor  child!  Poor  little  girl!  Eileen,  that  word's 
unsaid,  that  your  tear-filled  silence  answered — whis 
tle  it  down  the  wind ! 

EILEEN.  0  my  lord — I  never  dreamed — I  never 
dreamed — I  who  have  ever  honored  and  loved  you  as 
your  child! 

CORNWALLIS.  Child  of  my  heart  forever !  It  was 
I  who  dreamed!  Ah,  child,  the  sweet  spring  fire  of 
youth  is  in  your  eyes ;  and  there  must  have  been  just 
a  bit  of  rubbish  in  my  old  breast  that  caught  and 
burned  one  foolish  instant.  But  it  has  blazed  away 
and  it  has  gone  out  forever!  There,  there,  lass! 
That  very  old  fool,  your  guardian,  is  a  soldier 
again ! 

EILEEN.  Ah,  my  dear,  dear  lord,  you  will  have 
from  me  all  the  heart  of  a  daughter  now  and  always. 
That  is  better — ah,  is  it  not  better? 

CORNWALLIS.  Much  better,  child — for  you! 
Yes — go,  child,  go!  In  a  moment  they  will  summon 
us  to  dinner.  (Kisses  her  forehead.)  And  that  is 
the  seal  of  my  birthday  gift — your  will,  to  my 
power's  limit! 


A  Song  at  the  Castle  143 

EILEEN.  My  whole  heart's  gratitude  to  you,  my 
lord— for  all !  For  all !  (Exit.) 

CORNWALLIS.  That  I  should  have  yearned  for 
her — impossible !  But  to  have  hoped — worse ;  worse ! 
But  to  have  spoken — that  was  most  utter  madness  of 
it  all!  Ah,  when,  when  will  December  learn  that 
the  width  of  the  year  stands  betwixt  him  and  May ! 
When  will  he  learn  that  December  must  pass  to  give 
May  room !  (Exit  Cornwallis.) 

(Enter  the  servant,  showing  in  O'Moirne, 
who  is  travel- stained  and  tired.  He  comes  in 
looking  about  him  wistfully.) 

SERVANT.     You  said — you  were  expected,  Sir? 

DESMOND.     Ay!     I  think  I  am  expected ! 

SERVANT.     I  will  announce  you,  Sir !     (Exit.) 

DESMOND.  And  this  is  the  Queen's  palace — at 
last!  Eileen,  is  it  near  me  that  you  are,  sweet? 
Eileen!  I  shall  see  you,  speak  with  you — sing  to 
you?  'Tis  to  your  own  castle  I  come,  to  say  in  one 

song — what God !  "Will  they  let  me  sing— me 

in  Dublin  castle?  Here,  where  the  echoes  of  smoth 
ered  liberty's  last  cry  are  scarcely  still!  Ah,  Mary 
Virgin,  for  my  love's  sake,  teach  me  how  to  keep  my 
love's  promise! 

(Enter  Eileen  hurriedly;  she  starts  on 
seeing  Desmond.) 


144  A  Song  at  the  Castle 

EILEEN.     Desmond? 

DESMOND.     Eileen! 

EILEEN.  You — you  took  me  unaware,  Mr. 
O'Moirne.  I  had  not  heard  that  you  were  come,  but 
you  are  welcome ;  believe  me,  you  are  very  welcome ! 

(She  extends  her  hand  which  lie  takes  and 
kisses.) 

DESMOND.  You  had  not  heard,  Mistress  Fitz 
gerald?  But  sure  you  had  not  forgot  that  I  stood 
pledged  to  come? 

EILEEN.  I  had  not  forgot ;  though  indeed  there 
has  been  time  for  forgetting  since  we  met ! 

DESMOND.  Just  half  a  summer  and  a  century  of 
winters. 

EILEEN.  Have  thoughts  of  me  had  such  a  cold 
reception,  then? 

DESMOND.  No,  for  they  were  ever  doing  as  the 
birds  do — migrating  to  a  sunnier  clime,  over  the  Irish 
sea. 

EILEEN.  Mr.  O'Moirne,  I  am  disappointed;  I 
flattered  myself  the  first  place  you  would  come  to  in 
Ireland  would  be  this  castle. 

DESMOND.  Why,  but  so  it  was — the  first  and 
only!  You  don't  believe  me? 

EILEEN.  Yes,  if  you'll  give  me  word  you've  not 
been  climbing  for  a  kiss  at  the  stone  of  Blarney 
Castle. 


A  Song  at  the  Castle  145 

DESMOND.  (Smiling.)  Mistress  Eileen  is  still 
herself,  I  see — still  setting  traps  for  runaway  slaves. 

EILEEN.  Alack!  I'd  liefer  my  word  should 
attract  only  freemen  that  come  of  their  own  brave 
will. 

DESMOND.  What  can  one  do?  Since  you  speak 
sceptres,  my  lady,  I  must  reply  with  vassalage. 

EILEEN.     Your  words  are  clever  courtiers,  Sir. 

DESMOND.  Then  would  I  could  dismiss  them, 
that  so  my  heart  might  stand  without  retinue  and 
speak  in  feeling.  Ah,  Mistress  Eileen,  then  you 
might  hear  how  deeply  I  wish  you  joy  of  this  day — 
your  birthday. 

EILEEN.  And  are  you  not  pledged  to  tell  me  that 
in  a  song? 

DESMOND.  Then  you  still  care  that  I  should  tell 
it  so? 

EILEEN.  I  think  I  never  cared  so  much  till 
to-night. 

DESMOND.  And  I  may  tell  of  my  joy  in  coming, 
and  you  will  listen? 

EILEEN.  If  it  be  not  selfish  for  me  to  ask  so  much 
joy,  as  would  be  mine  in  listening. 

DESMOND.  (Walking  lack  and  forth.)  I  must! 
My  heart  is  full — my  throat  aches — my  thoughts  they 
are  prisoned  eagles.  Ah,  but  no!  If  I  sang,  it 
would  be  strange  joy,  my  lady,  I  have  to  utter ;  for 
the  core  of  it  is  pain.  For  who  am  I  to  sing  at  your 


146  A  Song  at  the  Castle 

fine  feasting,  with  British  ears  of  stone  to  listen? 
What  can  I  bring  out  of  my  country's  dungeon  to 
grace  an  English  holiday?  What  flowers  out  of  her 
trampled  fields?  What  gift  as  a  tribute  to  you,  my 
lady, — I,  that  come  beggared,  wrapt  in  a  tattered 
title?  What  indeed  am  I? — An  Irishman,  alas !  An 
Irishman,  thank  God! 

EILEEN.     Amen  to  that  "thank  God." 

DESMOND.  And  you  say  that?  0,  then  you  will 
for  one  mad  minute  listen  to  an  Irish  heart  that  can 
not  keep  its  head.  My  lady,  you  are  here;  I  am 
here ;  we  have  been  apart  and  it  was  long.  I  came 
but  to  say  God  prosper  you  and  good-bye ;  but  now 
— now — now — I  am  come  to  say  I  love  you,  and — I 
love  you — and  I  love  you.  No,  no,  do  not  speak. 
A  power  like  the  wind  has  borne  me  here;  'tis  a 
power  like  the  whirlwind  that  could  carry  me  away 
before  all's  said!  Eileen,  far  across  the  seas,  your 
eyes  called  me — called  me  back  through  grief  and 
shame  and  blood  here  to  your  feet,  and  here  I  lay  the 
life  of  me.  My  being  is  no  longer  mine;  it  is  Love's 
— and  yours,  Eileen! — Eileen!  (She  moves  slowly 
toward  Mm.  He  gazes  at  her  with  passionate  tender 
ness.  She  is  about  to  speak,  when  Lady  Wyndham 
enters.) 

LADY  W.  Heavenly  powers!  Eileen,  child — 
what 

DESMOND.      (Rising.)     Madame, — I — Madame — 


A  Song  at  the  Castle  147 

Mistress  Fitzgerald  has  been  detained  at  my  fault. 
You  are  in  good  time.  I — I  have  much  wronged 
her  leisure. 

LADY  W.  Mistress  Fitzgerald,  his  lordship,  your 
guardian,  desires  your  attendance  directly. 

EILEEN.  (Haughtily.)  Have  the  goodness  to  tell 
his  lordship 

LADY  W.  No,  child,  have  the  goodness  yourself. 
I  take  no  nays  to  Lord  Cornwallis. 

DESMOND.  Madame,  may  I  be  permitted  to  see 
Lord  Cornwallis  and  explain  my  presence  here? 

LADY  W.  0  Lud,  Sir,  no;  I  don't  think  it;  his 
lordship  is  very  busy.  It  is  his  dinner  hour.  Come, 
Eileen. 

EILEEN.  And  this  gentleman  is  Lord  Cornwallis' 
dinner-guest — and  mine!  (To  Desmond.)  Forgive 
me,  Sir,  for  the  moment  I  must  attend  my  guardian's 
summons ;  but  it  is  but  for  the  moment.  You  will 
wait  my  return — Desmond?  You  will  wait? 

DESMOND.  I  will  wait.  (Exit  Eileen  and  Lady 
W.)  My  God!  How  can  I  stay?  But  I  have  prom 
ised — and  my  song  is  still  unsung!  I '11  wait; — and 
waiting,  dream  a  thousand  different  ways  how  she  did 
call  me  Desmond. 

(Enter  Morton,  Wilde  and  Valiere.) 

VALIEBE.  Pardieu!  The  Irish  singing  fellow 
who  set  Paris  in  a  flame !  Why  is  he  here? 


148  A  Song  at  the  Castle 

WILDE.     Why  are  we  all  here? 

MORTON.  A  suitor  ? — He? — At  any  price  we  must 
be  rid  of  him.  The  girl's  a  dreamer ;  and  his  voice 
wakes  dreams. 

WILDE.  Leave  me  to  deal  with  him.  He  came  a 
suitor;  he  shall  go  as  a  traitor.  Play  up  to  me. 
Do  you  bite? 

MORTON.  A  hot-head  Irishman — You're  right. 
"Tis  easy ! 

WILDE.  Marquis,  it  is  growing  late.  Is  that 
fateful  dinner  never  to  come  off? 

VALIERE.  I  am  no  better  informed  than  yourself, 
Monsieur  le  Colonel. 

WILDE.  Well,  I  for  one  am  tired  of  this  and  need 
refreshment.  (To  Desmond.)  Fellow;  a  glass  of  wine ! 

DESMOND.     Sir? 

MORTON.  Or  three  glasses,  rather,  and  quickly. 
What !  I  said  quickly. 

DESMOND.  You  will  now  say  quickly,  Sir,  that 
you  can  see  your  mistake. 

MORTON.  I  neither  see  it,  nor  solicit  news  of  it 
from  footmen.  More  wine  and  less  words.  You 
may  go. 

WILDE.  Ton  honor,  Humphrey,  have  patience; 
give  the  fellow  a  shilling,  can't  you?  Here,  Eobin- 
son,  Johnson,  what's  your  name?  (Offers  Mm  a 
coin.) 

DESMOND.      (Disdainfully  to    Wilde.)      Sir,    I 


A  Song  at  the  Castle  149 

speak  to  the  one  man  I  see !  ( With  repressed  anger , 
to  Morton.)  You,  Colonel  Morton,  have  either  lately 
grown  short  of  sight,  or  have  yet  to  learn  that  foot 
men  do  not  carry  swords;  either  of  which  misfor 
tunes  I  am  your  servant  to  alleviate. 

MORTON.  O'Moirne!  Upon  my  soul,  and  so  it 
is !  Your  pardon,  Mr.  O'Moirne,  but  really  you  have 
much  altered — and  here  was  the  last  place  I  looked 
to  meet  you. 

WILDE.  O'Moirne— O'Moirne.  Why,  didn't  I 
hear  we  were  to  have  a  song  from  one  O'Moirne  with 
the  fiddling  to-night?  Egad,  singing  can't  be  the 
most  profitable  trade  in  the  world ! 

VALIERE.  The  same,  Monsieur,  sans  doute.  He 
has  the  air  of  the  stage — ah? 

DESMOND.  If  Colonel  Morton  finds  me  altered  in 
estate  since  we  last  met,  it  is  surely  thanks  in  part  to 
Colonel  Morton  and  those  who  have  brought  altera 
tion  to  my  country. 

MORTON.  Say  rather  those  whose  paternal  care 
would  not  suffer  your  country  to  be  maltreated  by  her 
children. 

DESMOND.  Ireland's  sons  have  been  taught  to 
keep  good  guard  of  her.  And  when  a  meddling 
neighbor  knocks  at  her  door,  they  have  but  barred  it 
fast,  and  died  upon  its  sill  to  keep  him  out. 

MORTON.  It  is  perhaps  well  for  your  neck,  Sir, 
that  your  mouth  speaks  in  parables. 


150  A  Song  at  the  Castle 

DESMOND.  For  the  caution,  thanks;  I  will  eat 
patience. 

WILDE.  That's  food  that  gives  an  Irishman  dys 
pepsia. 

VALIERE.  Ah,  Monsieur  O'Moirne,  it  is  a  happi 
ness  you  are  to  sing  to  us.  You  sing  in  opera,  yes? 
But  it  seems  you  play  no  more  the  hero  since — since 
your  little  rebellion  here. 

DESMOND.  I  have  heard  the  same  of  you,  Mar 
quis;  I  believe  you  no  longer  play  the  hero  in 
France,  since  your  little  rebellion  there. 

WILDE.  Zounds !  There's  a  clip  for  the  French 
poodle. 

VALIEEE.  But  there  is  one  difference,  Monsieur. 
In  France,  the  gentlemen  are  obliged  to  flee;  in 
Ireland,  it  seems  otherwise;  for  here  all  gentlefolk 
are  English. 

DESMOND.     Sir,  you  have  an  Irish  hostess. 

VALIERE.  (With  a  taunting  smile.)  0,  but  has 
Monsieur  heard  never  of  the  legend  of  the  chamber 
maid  with  a  fortune,  to  whom  lords  came  a-wooing? 

DESMOND.  (Striking  him  in  the  face  with  his 
glove. )  You  damned  scoundrel !  Now,  by  Heaven ! 
Patience  spells  cowardice  here!  Bullies!  Because 
I  am  an  Irishman,  you  think  to  risk  your  taunts  and 
see  me  swallow  them  with  smiles.  You  are  three  to 
one ;  you  think  yourselves  secure  in  the  presence  of 
the  Viceroy  and  this  roof's  hospitality.  The  very 


A  Song  at  the  Castle  151 

color  on  your  backs  is  the  red  badge  of  conquering 
crime,  the  stained  symbol  of  Irish  hearts  that  bleed 
even  now  upon  the  withered  shamrock.  Take  that 
truth,  gentlemen,  from  an  Irish  heart,  and  disprove 
it  on  an  Irish  sword ! 

(All  draw  their  swords;  Desmond  keeps 
Morton  and  Wilde  at  lay,  while  Valiere  runs 
to  the  door.  The  chief  lout  is  between  Des 
mond  and  Morton,  Desmond  getting  the  upper 
hand,  while  Wilde  aids  Morton  on  the  out 
skirts.) 

MORTON.  This  is  treason.  Keep  him  close. 
Call  the  guard. 

VALIEKE.  Treason!  Guard — guard,  ho !  Treason 
and  swords ! 

WILDE.  Guard  yourself,  Humphrey;  or  we  shall 
not  only  call  "treason"  but  "murder."  Treason 
ho! 

(Enter  Cornwallis,  followed  by  Eileen.) 

CORNWALLIS.  Gentlemen,  put  up  your  swords. 
Take  shame!  What  is  this,  gentlemen? 

MORTON.  Treason,  my  lord.  Here  stands  a  rebel 
who  has  slandered  the  king. 

VALIERE.     Guard  ho!     Bring  here  the  guard ! 

CORNWALLIS.  (With  acerbity.)  And  bid  them 
hold  all  those  who  have  drawn  a  sword!  Gentle 
men,  may  we  have  quiet?  (To  Desmond.)  Sir,  you 


152  A  Song  at  the  Castle 

stand  here  as  my  guest.  You  are  accused  of  treason. 
Have  you  any  defense  to  offer? 

DESMOND.  None,  my  lord;  I  have  spoken  my 
heart — and  it  is  the  heart  of  an  Irish  rebel. 

COKNWALLIS.  And  was  that  well  done,  beneath 
an  English  roof? 

DESMOND.  Your  lordship,  this  castle  was  built  by 
Irish  hands,  for  the  home  of  Irish  gentlemen! 

CORNWALLIS.     Go,  while  you  are  still  my  guest. 

(Desmond  sheathes  his  sword,  and  with  a 
deep  salutation,  turns  to  go.) 

EILEEN.  My  lord,  he  is  my  guest  also,  bid  for 
my  birthday  pleasure. 

VALIEBE.  Bid  to  give  Mademoiselle  a  birthday 
song.  Pardieu!  Doubtless  an  air  from  the  Beggar's 
Opera. 

CORNWALLIS.  Gentlemen — I  pray  you  merit  your 
designation!  Mr.  O'Moirne,  your  hostess  begs  you 
to  remain  her  guest,  and  for  the  pleasure  of  your 
promise. 

DESMOND.  Your  lordship,  it  is  true  that  I  came 
over  sea  but  to  bring  this  lady  the  gift  she  honored 
me  to  ask — the  gift  of  one  poor  song.  But  the  song 
I  brought  here  in  my  breast  has  already  said  itself  to 
her,  in  words  past  her  forgiving;  and  now  the  only 
song  that  tears  my  heart  for  singing  is  not  a  song  it 


A  Song  at  the  Castle  153 

would  pleasure  you,  my  lord  and  gentlemen,  to  hear. 
I  take  my  leave. 

EILEEN.  Whatever  the  song — I  claim  your  prom 
ise — Desmond ! 

MORTON.     (Aside.)     "Desmond!"     The  devil! 

VALIEEE.  Apparently  the  gentleman  is  bankrupt 
even  in  promise. 

DESMOND.  But  not  yet,  thank  God,  bankrupt  in 
song!  Gentlemen,  you  shall  for  once  lend  English 
ears  to  the  word  of  Ireland ! 

(He  sings  "The  Wearing  of  the  Green." 
Ending  with  a  burst  of  high  feeling,  Desmond 
hands  Cornwallis  his  sivord.  Cornwallis  looks 
at  it  coldly.) 

CORNWALLIS.  This  time,  young  Sir,  I  cannot  bid 
you  go ;  your  liberty  is  forfeit.  Nay,  not  to  me  your 
sword.  That  is  for  another  custodian. 

VALIERE.  Ho,  guard!  Why  does  not  come  the 
guard? 

EILEEN.  My  lord!  This  day  you  gave  me  prom 
ise  !  My  will,  my  lord — my  will  to  be  once  granted 
to  the  utmost  of  your  power.  My  will  is  Desmond 
O'Moirne's  life  and  liberty.  He  has  brought  me  the 
gift  of  a  life  forfeit  for  love  and  honor.  Let  him  go, 
my  lord — and  where  he  goes,  I  go  with  him! 

DESMOND.     Eileen!     My  God!     Eileen! 

EILEEN.     My  lord? 


154  A  Song  at  the  Castle 

COENWALLIS.  I  cannot  bestow  as  your  birthday 
gift  this  gentleman's  life  or  liberty. 

MOKTOK.  I  thought  there  were  some  bounds  to 
chivalry ! 

EILEEN.  You  can  not?  Say  rather,  my  lord,  you 
will  not!  "Where  is  your  pledged  word,  my  lord? 
Yours  is  the  power 

COKNWALLIS.  Child,  my  power  here  stands 
powerless.  I  cannot  grant  you  his  life  and  liberty  as 
your  holiday  boon,  I  say,  for  I  had  granted  them 
already;  the  free  gift  of  a  soldier  to  a  soldier's  deed! 
Your  boon  is  still  your  own  to  ask. 

EILEEN".  (Kneels. )  Then — 0  my  lord !  my  dear, 
dear  lord !  Let  it  be  your  blessing  and  your  pardon ! 

DESMOND.  My  lord,  I  never  thought  to  say,  an 
Englishman  has  conquered  me!  (Kneels,  offering 
sword.) 

(CUKTAIN.) 


ROHAN  THE   SILENT 

A    ROMANTIC    DRAMA 
IN    ONE    ACT 


Rohan  The  Silent 


CAST   OF   OHARACTEKS. 

BOHAN  (called  the  Silent,  son  of  Sir  Robert  Fulford) . 

SIE  PHILIP  ROCHEMONT. 

SIR  EGBERT  FULFORD. 

GODWIN, 

BEOWULF, 

GOBYN,         f  His  Liegemen. 

JOHN, 

GODFREY,  a  Priest. 

ISOBEL,  Sir  Robert's  Ward. 

NURSE  ELFRIDA. 

The  time  is  1200  A.  D.  The  scene  is  the  court 
yard  of  Sir  Robert  Fulford's  castle  on  a  morning  of 
early  spring. 

NOTE   ON   THE   PLAY. 

Rohan,  son  of  Sir  Robert  Fulford,  has  been 
stricken  dumb  in  early  childhood,  at  the  sight  of  his 
mother  killed  at  his  feet  in  the  courtyard.  Sir  Rob- 

*This  play  was  written  in  collaboration  with  Emma 
Sheridan  Fry. 

157 


158  Rohan  The  Silent 

ert  Fulford  has  pledged  his  word  that  if  at  the 
expiration  of  fifteen  years  his  son  remains  dumb,  his 
nephew,  Sir  Philip  Rochemont,  shall  he  received  at 
Castle  Fulford  as  his  acknowledged  heir.  Sir  Philip 
has  vainly  sought  in  marriage  Isobel,  Sir  Robert  Ful- 
ford's  ward.  Hearing  that  she  purposes  to  leave  the 
castle  "to  betake  her  to  other  living"  before  he 
comes  into  possession  as  the  heir-to-be,  Philip  comes 
some  time  before  the  hour  agreed  upon,  demanding 
that  maid  and  castle  be  yielded  up  to  him.  What 
follows  upon  his  demand,  the  hour  portrayed  in  the 
play  sets  forth. 

SCENE. 

Castle  in  the  twelfth  century.  Castle  walls  run 
ning  from  R.  1st,  to  upper  L.  Castle  to  the  R. 
Entrance  to  castle  R.  2.  Steps  to  luall  L.  2.  Gates 
in  wall  L.  3.  A  spinning  wheel  just  below  steps 
leading  to  castle.  An  entrance  between  castle  and 
wall  up  R.  Backing  of  hills  and  sky  seen  over 
wall.  Skins  thrown  about  court.  Bench  for  spin 
ning  wheel,  other  benches,  etc.  At  rise  of  curtain 
Gobyn  is  seated  on  bench  R.  Godwin  is  pacing 
stage,  centre  to  lack.  Beowulf  is  entering  from  cas 
tle.  John  is  seated  on  edge  of  table  L,  polishing 
sword.  Two  liegemen  are  seated  at  same  table,  L. 

JOHK.  (Crossing  to  Gobyn  and  showing  sword.) 
There's  a  rare  polish,  eh,  Gobyn? 


Rohan  The  Silent  159 

GOBYN.  (Pushing  him  laughingly  lack.)  Sit 
thee  down  and  stare  at  thy  face  in  it ! 

(John  crosses  lack  to  L.) 

GODWIN.  (Coming  down.)  Nay,  let  him  save  it 
for  fighting;  mayhap  Philip's  face  will  show  in  it. 

JOHN.     Ay,  fight!     Fight! 

GOBYN.  Hear  the  boy !  Beowulf  may  have  other 
telling. 

JOHN.  Fight,  I  say!  Kill  Philip  and  his  archers ! 
Ah,  but  fighting  is  rare  play !  Will  Philip  and  his 
archers  soon  be  here,  think  you?  Fight !  I  say ! 

GODWIN.  Put  thy  strength  in  thine  arm,  boy! 
Warriors  fight  not  out  of  brawling  throats. 

BEOWULF.  I  wot  thou'lt  not  need  thy  toy,  for  all 
thy  shouting,  good  boy  John. 

GODWIN.  Says  our  lord  so,  Beowulf?  Now,  by 
my  soul !  Shall  Philip  stuff  our  throat  with  insult, 
and  shall  we  stomach  at  his  pleasure? 

JOHN.  Thou'lt  ever  answer  for  a  man.  Quoth 
Beowulf,  John — I  have  a  tongue. 

GOBYN.  'Twere  better  for  our  ears  that  thou  wert 
dumb  like  Rohan. 

BEOWULF.  (Crossing  to  L.  C.)  No  insult,  God 
win,  for  all  ye  breathe  so  hard.  Our  lord,  Sir  Robert 
Fulford,  has  made  an  oath ;  the  day  has  come,  and 
Philip  holds  him  to  it.  That's  no  insult. 

GODWIN.     Yea,  insult,  say  I !    Why  comes  Philip 


160  Rohan  The  Silent 

a  sun's  space  before  his  right?  Is  there  no  insult? 
Why  comes  he  in  war's  wise  and  to  demand,  and  not 
as  kinsman,  to  accept?  Is  there  no  insult?  And 
when  all's  said,  the  oath  is  fifteen  years  grown  dry. 

BEOWULF.     An  oath's  an  oath. 

GOBYN.  A  good  oath,  too.  We  cannot  have  a 
dumb  dolt  set  up  over  us  for  lord. 

GODWIN.  Nor  can  we  have  a  proud-mouthed 
Norman  crying  us  to  bend,  before  that  we  are  ready. 
The  oath  was  made  in  a  mind-heat. 

GOBYN.  Not  so!  Rohan  had  been  dumb  and 
dolt  a  year.  Do  you  mind  you,  Beowulf,  how  we 
counselled  our  Lord  Robert  to  wait  not,  but  to  take 
this  Philip  then  for  a  son,  and  for  young  lord,  and 
put  the  daft  boy  Rohan  by? 

JOHN.     This  same  Philip  knocking  at  our  gates? 

GODWIN.  Ay.  I've  heard;  but  the  mother's  eyes 
looked  out  of  Rohan's  face;  and  our  lord  would  not. 

GOBYN.  Our  lord  would  not  then;  but  now  the 
cause  is  Philip's. 

JOHN.     Shall  we  not  fight? 

BEOWULF.  Sir  Philip  Rochemont  hath  six  hun 
dred  archers  in  his  wages ; — e'en  though  his  cause  were 
not  so  good,  we  durst  not  come  within  his  danger. 

GODWIN.     Durst  not?     S'body!     Durst  not? 

GOBYN.     Mark  him  for  a  fighter ! 

GODWIN.  Ay,  sword-stroke  is  my  shrift.  Not 
leech-death  or  straw-death  dies  my  blood. 


Rohan  The  Silent  161 

We're  a  poor  few  at  six  hundred;  but  a 
big  many  to  sit  and  do  no  fight. 

GODWIN.  Sooner  than  see  these  gray  walls  give 
without  some  war -play,  to  Philip,  I'll  swear  fealty  to 
our  lord's  stall-fed  son,  Rohan!  (All  laugh.) 

BEOWULF.  Eohan,  the  shuttle- thrower?  Our 
castle  needs  a  lord.  Why  should  we  break  our  hau 
berks  barring  up  the  gates  when  we  must  needs  invite 
this  Philip,  will  or  nill? 

GODWIN.  A  lord,  mayhap,  but  why  this  sneak- 
eyed  Philip? 

BEOWULF.  See  how  the  name  frets  him !  Sooth 
Godwin  hath  not  forgotten  how  Philip  wooed  fair 
Isobel.  (All  laugh.) 

GODWIN.     Peace ! 

GOBYN.  Ay  there's  the  core  o' the  thing!  Says 
Godwin, — An  Philip  take  the  castle  to-day,  the 
maid's  within  the  castle ; — let  him  bide  till  the  mor 
row,  and  she  may  be  otherwhere ! 

BEOWULF.  'Twere  a  good  thought  to  send  the 
girl  out  to  him.  (Crosses  to  L.  near  Golyn.) 

GODWIN.    No,  by  Saint  Jude,  not  so !    (All  laugh.) 

BEOWULF.     He's  a  brave  tilt  for  a  lady's  eyes! 

GODWIN.  Enough!  Shall  the  dove  mate  the 
hawk?  If  Philip  must  be  lord,  let  him  abide  till  he's 
bidden;  and  that's  not  till  the  morrow's  morn! 

GOBYN.  Well  said !  And  let  us  send  the  girl  for 
hostage.  (Mark  him !  Mark  him !) 


1 62  Rohan  The  Silent 

GODWIN.  Peace!  Thy  tongue  wags  as  thou  wert 
lord. 

JOHN.  Where's  Eohan  while  his  castle  slips  his  hold? 

BEOWULF.  Where  is  he  always?  In  the  woods  at 
talk  with  the  beasts.  (AH  laugh.) 

GODWIN.  What  answer  sent  our  lord,  when 
Philip's  messenger  came  in  at  sun-up,  demanding 
open  gates?  We  are  not  in  our  lord's  good  council- 
ing,  though  ours  the  fighting. 

GOBYN.  Nay,  no  fight.  Thou  hast  forgot  the 
maid  for  hostage.  (Mark  him,  how  his  brow  knots !) 

GODWIN.     Peace ! 

{Enter  Isabel  L  from  castle.  All  rise  to 
salute  her.  Godwin  crosses,  and  lends  above 
her  hand.) 

ISOBEL.  I  am  come  to  bid  you  to  a  consult  with 
our  lord,  Sir  Eobert  Fulford;  of  such  matters,  thus 
his  word,  as  concerneth  greatly  to  the  weal  of  all. 

GODWIN.  Fair  lady,  thy  news  doth  all  but  match 
thyself  for  fairness. 

BEOWULF.     (Aside  to  men.)     Mark  him! 
ISOBEL.      Nay,    Godwin,   heavy   news;    our   lord 
looked  felly  on  me.      Methinks   the   business  hath 
much  weight. 

BEOWULF.  And  so  it  should  have.    Have  with  you. 

(The  men,  following  Beowulf,  exeunt  lei 
surely  into  castle,  by  upper  R.  entrance.  As 


Rohan  The  Silent  163 

they  go,  they  indicate  to  each  other,  laugh 
ingly,  in  dumb  shoiv,  Godwin  bending  above 
Isabel's  hand.  Godivin  follows  them,  after  a 
salute  to  Isobel,  of  marked  respect.) 

ISOBEL.  (To  nurse  who  enters  R.  from  castle 
behind  her.)  Nay,  nurse,  thou  shalt  not  chide. 
(Isobel  runs  up  steps  in  wall.)  I've  more  heart  to 
wink  at  the  sunshine  than  at  the  gloom  within.  I'll 
lift  me  nearer  by  the  height  of  a  wall. 

NURSE.     Nay,  madcap,  down! 

ISOBEL.     That  I'll  not — I  can  see 

NURSE.     Sir  Philip's  archers,  mayhap.     Down! 

ISOBEL.  Nay,  I  care  not.  'Twere  a  goodly  sight, 
some  archers !  Here  we  have  no  fighting !  Yet  why 
Sir  Philip's?  I  would  rather  see  the  archers  of  some 
other  lord  than  he. 

NURSE.     Come  down,  I  say! 

ISOBEL.  Yet  any  archers  were  a  pretty  sight  to 
look  at.  Here  we  do  nothing.  Here  no  one  ever 
lifts  a  sword,  save 

NUESE.     Wilt  thou  down ! 

ISOBEL.     All  are  old  and  feeble  here,  all  save 

NURSE.  Thou 'It  leave  me  here  midway  the  step 
ping  stones?  Thou'lt  see  thy  old  nurse  fall?  Oh! 
Oh! 

ISOBEL.  (Running  down,  and  to  her.)  Nurse, 
dear  nurse,  thou  shouldst  bear  a  staff ! 


1 64  Rohan  The  Silent 

NURSE.  To  trounce  thee  with !  (Business.)  No 
one  lifts  a  sword  here  save  who,  mammet? 

ISOBEL.  (Seats  herself  on  bench.)  Save — save 

(Aside.)  Now  would  my  tongue  were  bitten  off! 
Save — I  know  not. 

NURSE.  Save — you  know  not!  And  we  with 
three  good  leaders  for  the  fight  within  our  walls ! 

ISOBEL.     Three?     Three?     Oh,  nurse!     Three? 

NURSE.  Ay,  three!  Beowulf,  Gobyn  and  God 
win, — think  how  Godwin  lifts  a  sword! 

ISOBEL.  Ay,  but  nurse,  I've  seen  a  sword  lifted 
more  well — I've  seen  it  cleave  the  air  like  a  swift  loop 
of  light.  I've  seen  it  poise  so  still  you'd  think  man 
and  sword  were  stone — ay — and  the  man 

NURSE.  Where  hast  thou  seen  this?  Ah,  thou 
puss!  'Tis  Philip,  'tis  Sir  Philip  Eochemont! 

ISOBEL.     Nay,  I  said  it  not! 

NURSE.  A  brave,  gentle  knight  who  has  no  fear. 
Why  did  thee  flout  him? 

ISOBEL.     I  liked  him  not. 

NURSE.  Yet  he  can  lift  a  sword,  eh?  And  all  are 
old  and  feeble  here,  save — save  who,  mammet,  sweet 
bird? 

ISOBEL.     Save  Eohan.     (Kneels  at  nurse's  side.) 

NURSE.  Oh!  eh!  Hee,  hee!  Rohan,  the  churl! 
He  who  hath  no  tongue — my  side  aches!  Thou 'It 
be  sly  and  say  Eohan,  to  keep  thy  tongue  from  Philip 
— and  to  thy  old  nurse !  Pretty  bird!  Pretty  bird! 


Rohan  The  Silent  165 

ISOBEL.  Save  Eohan !  And  if  tliou  wilt  say  Philip 
once  again,  I'll  cry  the  name  down.  I'd  rather 
twenty  times  say  Rohan  than  once  Philip.  (Rises.) 

NURSE.     Sit  thee  down. 

ISOBEL.  Thou 'It  not  chide?  (Seats  herself  beside 
nurse.) 

NURSE.  Ay,  I'll  chide!  Sir  Philip  hath  a  great 
castle  and  six  hundred  archers.  He  will  be  master  here. 

ISOBEL.  (Rises  to  feet.)  Nurse!  Speak  ye 
treason!  Sir  Robert  Fulford's  master  here. 

NURSE.  Ay,  but  Sir  Robert  waxeth  old  and  in 
such  time  another-  master  comes,  Sir  Philip,  our 
lord's  cousin. 

ISOBEL.  Rohan  is  Lord  Fulford's  son;  in  such 
time  comes  Rohan. 

NURSE.  Ay,  so  he  should  were  he  not  a  fool,  so 
he  should  but  by  an  oath. 

ISOBEL.     An  oath?     What  oath? 

NURSE.  Sir  Robert  made  an  oath  that,  fifteen 
years  gone  by  he  would  give  up  the  ruling  of  the 
place.  This  is  the  day,  and 

ISOBEL.     And  Rohan's  master! 

NURSE.  Put  thy  teeth  down  against  thy  tongue 
and  hold  them  so  till  that  I  give  thee  leave  to  speak. 
Rohan  was  a  dolt.  My  lord's  retainers  urged  that 
this  same  Philip  should  be  taken  by  my  lord  for  son 
and  to  be  heir. 

ISOBEL.     My  lord  would  not ! 


166  Rohan  The  Silent 

NURSE.  Thy  tongue!  My  lord  would  not  then, 
but  swore  that  if  fifteen  years  should  pass,  and 
Kohan's  curse  of  dumbness  be  not  lifted,  he  should 
be  set  aside. 

ISOBEL.     And  then! 

NURSE.  And  then  the  place  should  go  to  next  of 
kin ;  and  that  is  Philip. 

ISOBEL.     "When  shall  this  be? 

NURSE.  To-day!  Shall  we  all  die  waiting  for  the 
fool  to  speak?  (Rises  and  crosses  to  centre.}  A 
dame  brat !  A  whimperer  that  clung  at  his  mam's 
kirtle  and  never  smiled  when  that  she  smiled  not 
first ;  and  had  more  mouth  for  kisses  from  her  than 
for  food ;  a  dame  brat ! 

ISOBEL.  Oh,  nurse!  Loved  he  his  mother  so, 
and  hath  not  spoken  since  the  day  she  died? 

NURSE.  Hath  not!  When  his  mother's  soul  went 
out  the  boy's  voice  went  out  after !  He's  water  in 
him;  not  his  father's  blood.  No,  nor  his  mother's 
neither — a  rare  dame!  Killed,  poor  lady. — Ay,  we 
had  fighting  in  those  days. — God  rest  her!  My  lady 
needs  must  see  the  arrows  hurtle,  she  comes  out — 
there!  (Pointing  to  tower.)  A  goodly  spirit !  And 
steps  her  in  the  breach  to  see  the  fight  go  on — an 
arrow — ay! — she  fell — there  where  Kohan  stood  in 
the  court,  at  his  feet,  down  dropped  she  stark. 

ISOBEL.  Oh,  nurse,  nurse!  And  Rohan  hath 
never  spoken  since. 


Rohan  The  Silent  167 

NURSE.  A  proper  comfort  to  our  good  lord,  he ! 
Struck  daft  and  tongueless !  Then  my  lord  took  the 
oath,  that  fifteen  years  gone  by,  and  no  change  come, 
Kohan  should  be  set  aside  and 

ISOBEL.  But,  nurse!  Change  hath  come !  Rohan 
is  great  and  strong,  and 

NURSE.  Strong  like  a  dumb,  dull  ox,  but  can  he 
lift  a  sword — knows  he  to  fight? 

ISOBEL.     Ay,  nurse,  ay! 

NURSE.  Where  hath  he  learnt?  The  meanest 
varlet  in  the  place  holds  himself  too  high  to  wrestle 
with  dolt  Eohan.  Hath  he  learnt  in  the  woods, 
mayhap? 

ISOBEL.     In  the  woods,  mayhap. 

NURSE.  I've  a  crick  in  my  side  with  laughing. 
And  he  fights  so  well,  'twere  well  he  came  to-day  to 
fight  Sir  Philip  out. 

ISOBEL.     Nurse!     Comes  Sir  Philip? 

NURSE.  Ay!  To  keep  our  good  lord  to  his  oath : 
to  claim  his  own. 

ISOBEL.     Oh,  where  is  Rohan? 

NURSE.     Ay,  where? 

ISOBEL.  Nurse,  mind  thee  that  song,  that  song 
the  gleeman  sang  so  long  ago,  the  old  gleeman  who 
loved  Rohan  while  Rohan  was  a  child  like  any 
other? 

NURSE.     A  daft  man ! 

ISOBEL.     It  saith, 


1 68  Rohan  The  Silent 

"When  scath  is  near  and  hope  is  flown, 

The  Fulford's  voice  shall  claim  its  own!" 
If  'twere  a  prophecy ! 

NURSE.  If 'twere!  If  'twere!  I've  not  patience 
with  thee!  'Tis  my  prophecy  that  thou  wed  with 
Philip,  and  Philip  rule  us  here!  (Crosses  to  castle 
steps.) 

ISOBEL.  Nay,  nurse !  They  will  not  give  me  up ! 
Oh,  shall  we  not  fight? 

NURSE.  Fight !  Thou  and  I?  Thou  flonted  him 
and  now  he's  like  to  pull  the  walls  about  our  ears  to 
teach  thee  better  manners ! 

ISOBEL.  Why  should  he  hurt  the  walls?  If  the 
oath's  true  and  he's  the  next  of  kin,  he  can  come  in 
in  peace — while  for  my  own  poor  part,  I  can  betake 
myself  to  some  other  living,  and 

NURSE.  Belike  he  hath  made  that  guess,  and  so 
he  comes  with  sword  to  take  the  place  while  thou  art 
safe  within ! 

ISOBEL.  Eohan  would  not  see  me  held  against  my 
will! 

NURSE.  Kohan!  Eohan!  Thou  hast  sun-motes 
in  thy  head !  Get  thee  within !  (Pushes  her  toward 
the  steps.)  Nay,  do  first  thy  task!  (Exit  nurse. 
Isabel  comes  lack  to  the  wheel  and  there  stands  mus 
ing.) 

ISOBEL.  (Alone.)  And  when  the  mother's  soul 
went  forth,  the  boy's  voice  went  forth  after!  He 


Rohan  The  Silent  169 

hatli  no  need  to  speak.  His  great  eyes  are  so  soft 
and  full  of  speech,  and  he  is  so  strong — so  strong! 
He  hath  swung  me  down  the  rocks  full  many  times, 
and  all  day  in  the  woods  he  hews  at  trees  and  plays  at 
swords,  and,  ah! — my  heart  aches, — my  heart  aches! 
(Sits  at  wheel,  croons  softly  the  song) — 

"When  scath  is  near  and  hope  is  flown, 
The  Fulford's  voice  shall  claim  his  own." 

(Enter  Rohan  up  L.  He  is  stoop-shoul 
dered  and  sullen-looking,  ivallcs  heavily  and 
slouching.  He  hears  in  his  arms  a  mass  of 
flowers  and  trailing  vines.  He  pauses  and 
notes  the  words  of  the  song,  then  comes  down 
behind  and  to  the  L.  of  Isobel,  and  drops  the 
flowers  at  her  feet.) 

ISOBEL.     (Looking  up.)     Eohan! 

KORAN*.     (By  gesture.)     Lady! 

ISOBEL.     For  me?     All  for  me? 

ROHAN.     (By  gesture.)     For  you! 

ISOBEL.     Ah,  Rohan!  Rohan! 

ROHAN.  (By  gesture.*)  Thou  art  pleased? 
There  are  more  in  the  woods,  I'll  bring  more.  I'll 
bring  them  all.  (Starts  up  stage.) 

*  Though  the  phrase  "by  gesture"  is  not  hereafter  given 
as  direction,  it  is  understood  that  ROHAN  expresses  himself 
by  gesture  alone. 


1 70  Rohan  The  Silent 

ISOBEL.     Nay,  these  are  full  plenteous  store. 

ROHAN.     I  can  do  nothing,  then.     (Turns  to  go.) 

ISOBEL.  Nay!  Rohan,  I — I  must  have  help  here. 
(Rohan  flings  himself  at  her  feet.)  Thou  shalt 
pass  the  flowers  and  I'll  weave — nay,  not  that  one, 
the  stem  is  sundered.  (Drops  it,  Rohan  hands 
another  with  his  left  hand,  reaching  for  the  dropped 
floiuer  with  his  right,  puts  it  in  his  bosom.)  Rohan, 
thou  hast  heen  long  away.  Methinks  thou  shouldst 
not  leave  thy  castle  so. 

ROHAN.     My  castle ! 

ISOBEL.  Ay!  Thy  castle.  Thou  art  come  to 
masterhood  this  day. 

ROHAN.  Nay,  I  cannot  speak.  To-day  I  am  set 
aside.  I  came  but  for  this,  that  you — you  might 
crave  flowers — for  no  other  cause.  I'm  better  in  the 
woods  away;  here  I  am  dolt,  fool,  shuttle-thrower, 
here  all  deride  me ;  there  I  may  lift  my  head.  I — I 
will  go  again.  (Starts  to  rise.) 

ISOBEL.     But,  cousin!     Sir  Philip  comes.     (Rises.) 

ROHAN.  (Starting.)  To  take  what  should  be 
mine!  Ah!  (Covers  his  face  with  his  hands.) 

ISOBEL.     And  you— you  weep ! 

ROHAN.     What  else — what  else — what  am  I? 

ISOBEL.     Had  I  thy  strength  I'd  not  weep. 

ROHAN.     No?    What  wouldst  do? 

ISOBEL.  I'd  be  brave,  I'd  be  like  Sir  Philip,  a 
proper  right  good  knight  who  has  no  fear. 


Rohan  The  Silent  171 

ROHAN.  Lady,  I  have  no  fear.  I  may  not  he  as 
others. 

ISOBEL.  Nay,  I'd  he  like  him.  He  has  a — great 
castle,  and 

ROHAN.     Lady ! 

ISOBEL.  Nay,  I  meant  not  to  hurt  thee.  Lift  up 
thy  head,  Rohan, — be  not  sullen,  be  not  churlish. 
Nay,  I  believe  thou  canst  speak.  Thou  canst  hear 
me? 

ROHAN.     Ay,  Gods !     I  hear ! 

ISOBEL.  Then  speak!  Though  'twere  but  an  old 
song!  Mark  it! 

"When  scath  is  near  and  hope  is  flown, 

The  Fulford's  voice  shall  save  his  own." 
Now,  try — try.  (Lays  her  hand  on  his  wrist.  He 
shivers,  looks  at  her  hand,  then  up  at  her.}  Come, 
now,  Rohan !  Cousin,  take  the  word  from  my  lips ! 
(Rohan  reaches  up  hungrily.)  Nay,  Rohan!  Shame 
upon  you !  I  will  go !  (He  turns  on  the  ground,  to 
follow  her  dress,  as  she  passes  him.) 

ISOBEL.  (At  top  of  the  steps.)  Thou'rt  shamed, 
Rohan? 

ROHAN.     Ay !     So  thou  wilt  return? 

ISOBEL.  (Pausing  on  the  steps.)  I  have  more 
chiding  for  thee. 

ROHAN.     I  would  be  chidden,  lady. 

ISOBEL.  (Comes  down  the  steps  slowly  and  seats 
herself  slowly.)  Sir  Philip  would  not  have  served  me 


172  Rohan  The  Silent 

so.  Rohan,  you  do  not  pass  the  flowers.  (She  puts 
her  foot  up  on  the  stone  steps,  the  better  to  hold  the 
flowers;  Rohan  hands  them  sometvhat  Uindly,  for 
watching  of  the  foot;  noting  which  Isobel  takes  it 
down.  Rohan  plans  that  he  may  lay  his  hand 
against  the  place  it  rested.)  Your  father  is  in  coun 
cil  with  his  men ;  Sir  Philip's  herald  came  at  sunrise, 
demanding— I  know  not  what !  Or  else  Sir  Philip 
will — I  know  not  what !  And  all  the  whiles  we  are 
thus  endangered,  thou  art  footing  through  the  woods 
and  care  not  if  Sir  Philip  comes  or  no. 

ROHAK.     Lady ! 

ISOBEL.  Nay,  speak  not !  I  have  no  patience  for 
you !  (Rohan  turns  away  his  face  down  toward  the 
stone  steps.)  And  now  thou  wilt  sulk — I  wist  not 
what  to  do !  I  trow,  if  thou  dwell  on  form,  sooth,  so 
will  I.  (Begins  to  spin.  Rohan  touches  her  role  and 
offers  her  a  flower.)  Nay,  I  have  done;  all's  said. 
(Rohan  goes  dejectedly.)  Nay,  depart  not  so! 
Though  all  is  said,  go  not  so,  Eohan.  I — I  will 
remember  more.  (Rohan  comes  back.)  Nay,  at  my 
feet  right  meekly — see,  I  have  thee  chained !  (Puts 
garland  over  his  head.)  Now  swear  me  fealty;  the 
oath  thou  wouldst  swear,  were  thou  liegeman  and  I 
queen,  thus:  "I,  Rohan,  do  pledge  myself  your 
liegeman  for  life  and  for  limb  and  for  earthly  wor 
ship;  and  faith  and  truth  will  I  give  unto  you,  to  live 
and  die  before  all  manner  of  folk;  so  help  me  God!" 


Rohan  The  Silent  173 

ROHAN.  Out  of  my  heart  1  "I,  Rohan,  do  pledge 
myself  your  liegeman  for  life  and  for  limb  and  for 
earthly  worship ;  and  faith  and  truth  will  I  give  unto 
you,  to  live  and  die  before  all  manner  of  folk ;  so  help 
me  God!" 

ISOBEL.  Dear  cousin,  thou  art  so  fierce  in  thy 
jesting  I'm  all  but  frighted. 

ROHAN.     I  will  be  gentle. 

ISOBEL.  Alack !  Thy  father  with  his  brow  still 
dark! 

(Rohan  starts  down  L,  Isobel  stands  by  her 
wheel  below  and  to  left  of  steps.  Enter  Sir 
Robert  Fulford,  Beowulf,  Gobyn,  Godwin, 
John  and  others.) 

SIR  ROBT.  (Centre.)  The  honor  of  me  and  of  ye 
all  I  would  gladly  save — had  I  a  son  or  were  I  less 
enfeebled  and  sore  weary  with  many  years,  we  might 
do  other  how. 

GODWIN.  (Right.)  Let  us  go  out  and  give  our 
arms  some  trial. 

JOHN.     (Left,  front.)     Ay,  ay! 

SIR  ROBT.  Shall  we  go  out  to  fall  like  corn  in 
harvest? 

GODWIN.     We  might  prove  the  better  men 

JOHN.     Ay !     The  better  men ! 

GOBYN.     (Right,  beside  John.     To  John.)     Peace! 

SIR  ROBT.     And  if  it  happen  that  in  war's  work 


174  Rohan  The  Silent 

ye  are  the  better  men,  what  will  it  profit  if  ye  he  left 
upon  the  slaughter -place,  mangled  with  wounds? 
Nay,  I  am  weary  and  war -sad  and  our  force  is  few. 
I  have  bid  Sir  Philip  here  for  parley.  For  saving  of 
my  oath,  this  day  must  pass  ere  my  sad  son  be  set 
aside.  In  proof  of  faith  we'll  give  him  up  the  girl. 
The  morrow  he  may  enter  here  in  peace  and  with  no 
test  of  arms.  This  is  our  wisdom.  Ah,  'tis  long 
since  I  was  Kobert  Fulford ! 

GODWIN.     Still  say  I,  let  us  fight ! 

JOHN.     Ay,  let  us  fight ! 

SIE  EOBT.     Had  I  a  son !     Had  I  a  son ! 

ROHAN.  (The  garland  still  about  him  comes  for 
ward,  L.  C.)  Good  my  father,  a  son  thou  hast! 

SIE  KOBT.  Now  look  down,  God,  and  laugh  upon 
my  fortunes !  Here  stands  out  my  son — look  down 
upon  him  and  laugh ! 

GODWIN.     Harnessed  bravely  for  war !    Out !  Out ! 

BEOWULF.  (Left.)  Shuttle-thrower!  Fit  to 
sport  with  wenches ! 

SIE  ROBT.  Here  stands  he  who  should  be  prop 
and  stay — here  stands — Ah !  I  choke ! 

GODWIN.  He  is  no  remedy.  Let  us  fight  and 
abide  fortune. 

JOHN.     Ay !     And  every  man  to  show  his  prowess ! 

GOBYN.     Boy!     (To  John.) 

SIE  ROBT.  Peace !  We  have  spoken.  Where  is 
the  girl?  Go  one  for  the  maid  Isobel. 


Rohan  The  Silent  175 

ISOBEL.  (Coming  forward.)  I — I  sat  here  spin 
ning,  good  my  lord,  and 

SIR  KOBT.  (Gravely  and  'kindly.')  Thou  hast 
heard,  then;  what  say  you,  fair  niece?  Wilt  be  our 
hostage?  In  part  we  owe  this  coil  to  thee.  Hadst 
thou  looked  with  favor  on  Sir  Philip's  wooing  we  had 
not  now  been  set  to  council.  Wilt  be  our  hostage? 
Or  shall  we  mend  thy  quarrel  with  our  good  blood? 

ISOBEL.  (Faintly.)  Bounden  am  I  to  be  content 
at  what  is  thy  good  pleasure,  my  lord. 

SIR  EOBT.     Right  maidenly. 

ROHAN.  (Flinging  off  the  garland.)  Father! 
Stay! 

SIR  ROBT.  I  wonder  at  thy  insolence  who  by 
God's  curse  and  mine  hast  no  place  here. 

GODWIN.  Good  my  lord,  let  us  not  stoop  to 
maiden  service.  Let  there  be  wage  of  arms,  one  of 
us  against  a  one  of  Philip's.  Heaven  will  decide  the 
right  by  the  issue;  and  by  the  issue  we'll  abide. 

JOHN.     Ay!     And  let  me  fight  it! 

GODWIN.  To  thy  mother,  boy!  Let  my  arm 
make  the  test.  If  that  my  fellows  and  thy  word  will 
have  it  so. 

GOBYN.     Ay,  good !     A  wage  of  arms ! 

BEOWULF.     And  Godwin's  arm  to  make  it! 

JOHN.  (And  others.)  Ay!  Ay!  A  wage  of 
arms,  and  Godwin's  arm  to  make  it! 

GODWIN.     'Tis  said. 


176  Rohan  The  Silent 

ROHAN.     Nay,  my  father !    All— let  me  fight? 
f  GODWIN.     Ha !     He  asks  to  fight ! 
(Speaking  }   BEOWULF.  The  shuttle-thrower  fight! 
together.)    ]   JOHN.          The  dumb  our  champion! 

[  OMNES.       (Laugh.) 

ROHAN.  I  am  like  iron.  None  here  can  cope 
me.  Heaven  will  decide  the  right. 

GODWIN.  Gods!  None  cope  thee?  Thou  art 
my  pastime !  Shall  I  be  holden  and  stayed? 

(Rushes  upon  Rohan.  They  wrestle.  As 
they  grip  and  strain,  the  men  follow  them 
about  with  broken  cries  and  exclamations. 
Rohan  throws  Godwin.  All  shout.) 

GOBYN.     Where  learned  the  fool  such  play? 

ISOBEL.  Oh,  good  uncle,  let  him  have  trial! 
Good  uncle,  abate  thy  rigor  against  thy  son !  What 
hath  not  Rohan  that  befits  a  man?  He  speaks  not? 
What  need  hath  a  Fulford  of  words,  when  that  he  is 
a  Fulford  and  wears  a  sword?  Have  the  hills  ^speech? 
Yet  there  is  no  strength  may  stir  them !  Speaks  the 
great  gold  sun  that  makes  the  whole  earth  live? 
Hath  the  lightning  need  of  words  when  that  it  strikes 
and  kills?  So,  good  my  lord,  is  Rohan! 

ROHAN.  I,  saving  thee,  should  be  lord  here;  by 
right  of  place  mine  It  is  to  fight  this  wage,  by  right 
of  strength,  too,  as  I  have  shown  but  now  before  ye 
all,  here  with  your  best  arm,  Godwin. 


Rohan  The  Silent  177 

GODWIN.  (Leaning  heavily  against  table  R.) 
Ay,  he  hath  wrenched  me.  I  will  call  him  young 
lord. 

ROHAN.  For  that  I  cannot  speak  ye  set  me  by. 
I  crave  my  curse  he  not  remembered  now !  By  the 
cause  whereby  it  fell  upon  me,  by  the  shaft  that 
struck  my  mother's  "brave  heart  through,  by  the  piti 
ful  sad  sight  of  her  here  at  my  feet,  I  crave  you,  I  cry 
you,  I  demand  you,  remember  not  my  curse,  but  let 
my  right  speak,  let  my  heart  speak,  let  my  sword 
speak,  let  me  fight ! 

ISOBEL.  Oh,  good  uncle,  lacks  he  words  who  can 
plead  so? 

JOHN  and  GODWIN*.     Ay,  ay ! 

BEOWULF  and  GOBYN.     Well  said ! 

SIR  ROBT.  What  say  ye,  men?  (Horn  sounds 
ivithout  the  wall.)  Sir  Philip  is  at  hand. 

BEOWULF.  We  shall  more  nearly  save  our  honor 
by  a  wage. 

GOBYN.  And  Rohan  here  hath  given  good  proof 
of  strength. 

GODWIN.  Ay,  strength  hath  he,  and  the  way  to 
put  it  forth. 

JOHN  and  OTHERS.  Ay,  let  the  wage  be  done  by 
Rohan ! 

BEOWULF.     Rohan  say  I ! 

SIR  ROBT.  (To  Rohan.)  Put  thee  in  war  dress! 
(Exit  Rohan  into  castle.  To  John  and  Gobyn.) 


1 78  Rohan  The  Silent 

The  gates !  (Beowulf  and  Sir  Robert  confer  L.  C. 
John  and  Gobyn  go  to  the  gates.) 

GODWIN.  (To  Beowulf  while  the  gates  are  being 
swung.)  I  tell  thee,  he  wrenched  me  with  my  own 
turn  o'er  the  shoulder, — the  same  as  thou  taught  rne. 

BEOWULF.  'Twas  I  taught  the  lad  sword-play  ere 
he  turned  dolt.  What's  in  it  all,  think  you? 

(Beowulf  and  Godwin  go  to  either  side  of 
Sir  Robert  up  L.  Gobyn  and  John  stand 
either  side  of  the  gate  up  C.  Nurse  and  Iso- 
bel  remain  to  L  of  steps.  Beowulf  and  Sir 
Robert  L.  C.  Enter  Philip  through  the  gates 
C  with  five  men  and  an  attendant  priest, 
Godfrey.) 

SIR  PHIL.  (Coming  to  R.  C.)  I  have  come  for 
brief  parley,  good  Lord  Fulford.  I  have  no  need  of 
consult,  having  many  good  stout  men.  By  mes 
senger  this  sun-up  I  have  made  known  to  you  my 
will.  The  castle  yielded  straight  with  all  therein. 
(Isobel  shrinks  lack.)  Or  thy  fair  niece  Isobel  as 
hostage  of  thy  faith,  to  yield  at  later  pleasure.  Fail 
ing  both  these,  good  my  Lord  Fulford,  I  have  a  right 
rare  gathering  of  yeomen  and  brisk  archers  to  show 
to  thee,  and  brave  catapults  to  knock  for  entrance. 
But  that  I  reverence  thy  years  and  thy  good  service 
to  our  lord  the  king,  I  had  not  come.  What  further 
parley  would  you?  Is  it  thy  will  to  settle  now  when 


Rohan  The  Silent  179 

I  may  enter  here?  That  were  fit  wisdom,  good  my 
lord ;  and  I  have  brought  an  escort  for  my  fair  hos 
tage.  Speak,  my  lord. 

SIR  EOBT.  Sir  Philip  Eochemont,  we  do  desire 
the  controversy  be  decided  by  a  wage  of  arms.  Your 
stoutest  soldier  and  our  own.  One  man  to  one  man, 
body  to  body. 

Sm  PHIL.  Ha!  My  lord,  for  such  lad's  play  why 
have  I  brought  my  yeomen  many  leagues? 

SIR  ROBT.  The  king  would  ill  regard  thy  violence 
against  me,  good  Sir  Philip. 

GODFREY.  (Aside  to  Philip.)  The  old  wolf  hath 
blood  still.  Be  thou  prudent,  Philip.  The  king's 
in  no  good  humor  towards  thee. 

SIR  PHIL.  (To  Godfrey.)  Peace!  (Pauses 
sullenly.)  Thy  terms? 

SIR  EOBT.  In  fair  fight,  one  man  to  one  man, 
body  to  body.  If  that  ours  prove  the  stronger,  Sir 
Philip  shall  depart  with  courteous  safe  conduct 
beyond  our  walls,  and  pledged  to  trouble  us  no  more. 
If  that  we  shall  fail,  we  shall  by  need  constrained 
submit  us  to  Sir  Philip,  ourselves,  our  walls  and  all 
therein,  swearing  our  fealty  and  pledging  our  serv 
ice;  thenceforth  for  always. 

GODFREY.  (Aside  to  Philip.)  Be  advised, 
'twere  better  so.  Thy  arm  is  good.  Be  mindful  of 
the  king.  Better  'twere  done  so.  Thou  wilt  have 
the  maid  as  safe 


i8o  Rohan  The  Silent 

PHILIP.  (Aside  to  Godfrey.)  Ay,  I'll  have  the 
maid.  Yet  'twere  a  risk.  These  few  we  have  are 
not  mate  for  e'en  their  poor  forces. 

GODFREY.  'Twill  take  but  a  small  space  to  whis 
tle  in  our  yeomen  and  our  archers,  Philip.  Be 
advised.  (Pause,  during  which  Philip  takes  note  of 
the  force  present,  IsobeVs  position,  and  the  gates, 
then  aloud  to  Sir  Robert.) 

PHILIP.  Were  honor  drowsing  now,  'twere  a 
hrave  trap,  good  my  lord,  to  stand  single  with  closed 
gates. 

SIR  EOBT.  (Motions  to  Gobyn  and  John  to  go  to 
gates  and  swing  them  open.)  Thou  hast  my  surety 
and  thou  hast  open  gates,  my  lord ;  and  thou  wilt  let 
the  wage  be  fought  without  the  walls. 

PHILIP.     Nay,  here !     Let  me  confer. 

(Sir  Robert"1  s  men  gather  round  Sir  Robert. 
Philip  confers  with  Godfrey.) 

PHILIP.  Mark  me,  I'll  trust  no  chance  for  the 
maid.  I  fight  the  wage  myself.  Watch  thou  the 
shift  of  arms.  If  that  I  am  mastered,  two  of  our 
men  shall  make  the  maid  secure;  another  two  of 
them  may  hold  the  gates ;  one  more  is  good  against 
the  other  force.  Come  thou  to  my  staying,  thou  and 
thy  dagger!  We'll  hold  them  so,  the  while  we 
whistle  in  our  forces. 

GODFREY.  Thy  blood  shows.  'Twas  always  so 
that  Norman  conquered  Saxon,  Philip. 


Rohan  The  Silent  181 

PHILIP.  Peace !  Give  thou  our  men  instructing, 
and  note  well  the  fighting. 

GODFKEY.     Ay,  Philip. 

PHILIP.  ( To  Sir  Robert. )  I  do  admit  thy  parley, 
good  Sir  Eobert.  Myself  will  meet  the  wage. 

SIE  ROBT.     Good. 

PHILIP.     Thy  Champion? 

(Enter  Rohan  from  the  castle.) 

ROHAN.     (By  gesture.)     Here! 
PHILIP.     (Laughing  insolently.)     Sure  Lord  Ful- 
f ord  does  not  offer  insult  to  a  knight  and  kinsman ! 
Thy  terms  state  man  to  man,  not  man  to  beast.     War 
dress  hides  not  thy  dolt  son  Rohan. 

GODFKEY.  Wisely,  Philip,  wisely.  The  wage  is 
easier  thine. 

SIB  ROBT.  The  wage  is  not  of  words,  Sir  Philip, 
but  of  sword-stroke. 

PHILIP.  (To  Godfrey.)  So!  (To  Sir  Robert.) 
Good! 

(Godfrey  tightens  the  strapping  of  Sir 
Philip' 's  armor.  Sir  Robert  mounts  steps  L, 
giving  inspection  to  Rohan's  equipment  as  he 
passes.) 

GODWIN.  (To  Beowulf  during  this  business.) 
I  like  it  not.  Didst  note  the  champing  of  his  jaw? 

ISOBEL.  (Down  L  to  nurse.)  Nurse!  Sir 
Philip's  eye  turns  craftily.  My  heart  chills. 


182  Rohan  The  Silent 

GODWIN.  (Continuing  his  talk  with  Beowulf.) 
Gates  open !  I  like  it  not ! 

ISOBEL.  Ah,  Rohan!  This  word,— In  the  dark 
hour — Rohan,  I  love  thee ! 

ROHAN.  (Not  touching  her.)  And  God  will,  I 
may  make  answer,  lady! 

PHILIP.     (Coming  forward.)     My  lord. 

Sin  ROBT.     Stand  forth. 

(They  take  place,  Rohan  L.  C.  Philip  R. 
C.  Sir  Robert  on  steps  to  castle  L.  Isabel 
and  nurse  down  R.  by  the  castle.  Gobyn  and 
Godwin  up  C.  Beowulf  above  steps  to  the  L. 
by  Sir  Robert.  John  R.  near  gates.  Sir 
Philip^s  men  doivn  L.  Godfrey  with  them.) 

SIR  ROBT.  In  fair  fight,  body  to  body,  man  to 
man,  Heaven  to  decide  the  right  by  the  issue. 

PHILIP.  So  betide  me  as  these  terms  I  faith 
fully  observe  me,  as  I  am  a  man,  a  Christian  and  a 
loyal  knight. 

ROHAN.  So  help  me  God,  all  these  terms  I  faith 
fully  observe,  as  I  am  a  man,  a  Christian,  and  (look 
ing  at  Isobel)  a  loyal  knight. 

(They  prepare.) 
SIE  ROBT.     Nestroque ! 

(They  fight.) 

ISOBEL.     Now  dear  Heaven  save  my  heart ! 
(Theyfight.) 


Rohan  The  Silent  183 

GODWIN.     Bare !     Eare !     Note  his  sword-play ! 

(They  fight.) 
JOHN.     Oh,  were  I  there! 

(They  fight.) 

ISOBEL.     Oh,  nurse,  nurse! 
BEOWULF.     There's  our  lord's  blood! 

(They  fight.) 

GODWIN.     God!     Here's  rare  play. 
GODFREY.     (Who  moves  about,  watching  closely.) 
He'll  do  it  fairly! 

(Philip  begins  to  get  the  better  hand.) 

GOBYN.     The  fool  goes  under ! 

SIR  EOBT.  Mine  eyes  mist.  Here  his  mother 
fell! 

GODWIN.     "We're  undone! 

ISOBEL.  0  God!  0  Eohan!  I  cannot  look! 
(Hides  her  face.) 

(Rohan  begins  to  get  the  better  hand.) 

SIR  EOBT.  's  MEN.     Ah !     Ah ! 
GODFREY.     (Watching  closely.)      Not   yet!     Not 
yet! 

(They  fight  furiously r,  Rohan  gaining.) 

GODWIN.     Bravely !     Bravely ! 

GODFREY.     He's  spent!     At  last!     If  ever— now! 


184  Rohan  The  Silent 

(Gives  signal  to  Philip1 s  men,  to  pass  swiftly 
around  the  back  behind  Beowulf,  and  over  the 
platform,  behind  Sir  Robert;  thus  to  Isobel. 
Only  Rohan  sees  them.  He  tries  to  hold  Sir 
Philip  with  one  hand,  that  he  may  signal  for 
Isobel1  s  protection  with  the  other.) 

GOBYN.     He  loses ! 

JOHN.     He's  hurt! 

GODFREY.     He's  mad! 

EOHAN.  (Speaks  hoarsely  in  his  throat.)  Ah! 
Ah !  (Loudly  and  hoarse. )  A  treason !  A  treason ! 

GODWIN.  God  in  heaven!  The  lady!  (Rushes 
down  from  up  C.  in  front  of  steps  to  Isobel  down  R.) 

BEOWULF.     The  gates ! 

GOBYN.     Dogs ! 

JOHN.     Treason!     Treason!     Treason! 

(Godwin  grasps  one  of  the  men  at  Isobel 
about  the  waist.  The  other  man  Godwin  holds 
down  by  back  of  necJc.  Gobyn  drags  shut  the 
gates  single  handed,  and  with  John,  protects 
them.  Beowulf  holds  the  fourth  man  of 
Philip.  Godfrey  goes  to  Philip's  staying, 
and  Rohan  forces  Philip  down.  Godfrey 
lifting  dagger  is  stayed  and  disarmed  by  Sir 
Robert.) 

EOHAN.      (Hoarsely  but  loud.)     Eight  is  mine! 

PHILIP.     I  yield  me.     (Philip's  men  drop  arms.) 


Rohan  The  Silent  185 

BOHAH.  (Throwing  up  his  hands.)  Mother  in 
Heaven!  I  speak!  I  have  found  tongue!  Ah! 
Ah!  Ah!  God  hear  me!  God  hear  me! 

C  GODWIN.     He  speaks ! 
(Speaking   I   JOHN.     He  hath  found  tongue ! 
together.)    ]    GODFKEY.     A  miracle! 

[  OMNES.    He  speaks!  A  miracle!  (etc.) 
ROHAN.     (Turns  R.  toward  Isobel,  reaches  out  his 
arms.)     I  make  answer,  lady!     I  claim  my  own! 
ISOBEL.     Thine,  Eohan!     (Comes  to  him.) 

(Sir  Robert  L.  C.  Rohan  and  Isobel  C. 
Nurse  and  Godwin  down  R.  Beowulf  and 
Gobyn  up  C.  John  and  others  up  L.  Philip1  s 
men  and  Godfrey  down  L.  Philip  disarmed 
on  the  ground  to  the  right,  and  in  front  of 
Rohan.) 

(CUETAIN.) 


AT  THE   BARRICADE 


AN    EPISODE    OF    THE 
COMMUNE    OF    '71 


At  the  Barricade 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

MARQUIS  DE  MALREVANCHE. 
LAURENT,  Lieutenant  of  Chausseurs. 
KADOC,  Sergeant. 
JACQUES  SAGE,  Corporal. 
DR.  RODELLEC. 

YVONNE  OF  GUIMPERLE,  called  Queen  of  the   Pe 
trol  euses. 

CLAIRE,  Contesse  de  St.  Lunaire. 
NICOLLETTE,  her  maid. 
THYMETTE.   } 

MARTON.       >•     Petroleuses. 
JEANNE.       ) 

Before  the  curtain  rises  the  orchestra  plays  a 
series  of  French  airs:  "Sur  le  Pont  d"1  Avignon;" 
11 L' Amour  fait  le  monde  a  le  rondej"  "Partant  pour 
la  Syrie;"  at  last  striking  into  the  Marsellaise,  which 
is  repeated  with  rapidly  increasing  tempo  and  em- 
189 


190  At  the  Barricade 

phasis.  Behind  the  curtain  a  tocsin  is  heard;  shouts; 
the  noises  of  a  swiftly  rising  emeute;  a  drum-roll; 
cries;  shots;  at  first  scattering,  then  a  fusillade;  the 
curtain  rises  on  the  last  moment  of  a  fight  at  a  barri 
cade  in  the  Quartier  Latin,  in  1871.  At  the  left  of 
stage,  half-way  back,  set  at  an  angle,  is  a  "barri 
cade,"  roughly  thrown  up,  of  paving  stones,  a  cart, 
broken  furniture  dragged  from  houses,  gates,  and  the 
like.  A  man  lies  dead,  fallen  across  it  face  forward. 
Another  lies  dead  in  foreground.  There  are  wounded 
men  and  women,  some  regular  soldiers,  some  revolu- 
tionaires,  lying  or  sitting  about  the  stage.  At  the 
right  of  stage,  two-thirds  back,  there  is  a  high,  blank 
brick  wall,  as  to  a  courtyard.  Dr.  Rodellec  is  exam 
ining  the  dead  and  wounded:  by  his  gestured  order, 
the  wounded  are  lead  and  the  dead  carried  away.  At 
the  right  of  the  stage,  at  the  back,  a  group  of  Petro- 
leuses,  Thymette,  Jeanne,  Marion,  are  being  bound, 
their  arms  behind  them,  by  tivo  soldiers,  under  di 
rection  of  Jacques  Sage;  Laurent  is  watching  them. 
He  is  dishevelled  and  powder-stained;  there  is  a  tear 
in  his  uniform  just  above  the  heart.  The  women  are 
bloodstained,  with  disordered  dress  and  hair.  After 
a  feio  moments  of  such  animated  pantomime  as  that 
above  indicated,  Doctor  Rodellec  crosses  to  Laurent, 
and  as  he  speaks,  they  come  down,  centre,  together. 
Rodellec  is  adjusting  his  cuffs,  putting  back  instru 
ments  in  case,  etc. 


At  the  Barricade  191 

DR.  EODELLEC.  Congratulations,  Monsieur  the 
Lieutenant :  vive  le  ligue !  I  could  not  have  led  the 
fight  better  myself!  Can  a  non-combatant  say 
more! 

LAURENT.  There  was  no  leadership,  Doctor! 
The  word  came  to  us — They  have  raised  a  barricade ! 
Level  it ! — I  but  passed  the  word  to  my  men,  here, — 
faith,  it  was  done ! 

KODELLEC.  And  well  done !  Behind  such  shelters 
as  that  revolutions  grow,  full-statured  in  an  hour. 
They  are  very  mushrooms  of  hell,  springing  up  no 
one  knows  how,  and  under  them,  the  creatures 
spawned  by 

MARTON.  Eemember  your  gallantry,  Monsieur 
the  Doctor !  Some  of  the  spawn  chance  to  be  of  your 
audience ! 

KODELLEC.  Be  quiet,  you  fool!  Or  you'll  lose 
more  of  that  hot  blood  of  yours  than  you  can  well 
spare!  I  warned  you  I  wouldn't  answer  for  that 
shoulder's  bandage.  It's  an  awkward  slash,  that! 

THYMETTE.  And  why  not  lose  hot  blood  as  well 
through  a  shoulder-cut  as  through  a  bullet-path  to 
the  heart?  It's  a  question  of  an  hour, — no  more! 
and  then, — backs  against  the  wall ! — present! — fire! 

JEANNE.  ( With  a  cry  of  terror.}  0  Marton,  no ! 
Monsieur  the  Lieutenant,  no!  Will  it  be  like  that 
with  us?  Is  it  true? 

LAURENT.     God's  mercy,  child  that  you  are!  why 


1 92  At  the  Barricade 

did  you  not  ask  yourself  that  question  before  you 
rushed  to  that  barricade? 

JACQUES  SAGE.  And  before  you  said  good-morn 
ing  in  lead  to  me  across  it?  Day  of  my  life !  Look 
at  the  mark  her  bullet  left ! 

JEANNE.  Monsieur  the  Lieutenant,  what  could  I 
do?  I  followed  Marton, — that  is  all!  I  did  not 
know  why !  I  did  not  know  where ! — Monsieur  the 
Lieutenant,  Marton  is  my  comrade !  She  has  shared 
her  one  crust  with  me, — she  has  wrapped  me  in  her 
one  blanket  when  nights  were  cold!  Monsieur  the 
Lieutenant,  what  could  I  do  when  some  one  had 
thrust  a  pistol  in  my  hand,  and  I  saw  that  man's 
bayonet  at  Marten's  breast? 

(A  drum-roll  is  heard  without.) 

LAURENT.  (Crosses  R.  to  look  down  street.)  De 
Guy  on,  perhaps?  My  colonel?  God  send  it!  It  is 
he  settles  these  women's  fate,  not  I.  Shoot  a  woman 
in  cold  blood?  Faugh!  It's  butcher's  work;  not  a 
man's! 

EODELLEC.  It's  butchery  to  France  not  to  shoot 
them!  They're  the  devil's  right  hand,  Lieutenant! 
"Why,  take  that  woman,  Yvonne,  now,  the  Petro- 
leuse  leader,  the  most  damnable, — that — which  is 
Yvonne? 

THYMETTE.  More  fitly  ask,  Monsieur,  where  is 
Yvonne ! 


At  the  Barricade  193 

RODELLEC.     You're  not  Yvonne  of  Guimperle? 

THYMETTE.  (Laughs.)  Am  I  Yvonne?  Eh, 
Mar  ton? 

MARTON.  You  Yvonne?  No  more  than  a  spark 
of  fire  is  hell ! 

LAURENT.  Sage!  Has  one  of  your  prisoners 
escaped,  then? 

RODELLEC.  Yvonne  escaped!  Then  you've 
picked  the  cherries  and  spared  the  tree ! 

SAGE.  There  were  no  other  prisoners,  Monsieur! 
The  woman  who  led  the  fight, — a  she  devil ! — was 
gone  when  the  fight  ended. 

(The  Petroleuses  laugh.) 

LAURENT.  Diable!  Does  any  man  here  know 
her? 

THYMETTE.  One  of  your  men  knows  her,  Mon 
sieur  !  He  was  carried  from,  there  just  now  with  her 
knife  through  his  heart. 

LAURENT.  She's  had  no  time  for  escape.  Our 
men  are  everywhere.  The  woman  is  in  hiding  some 
where  near.  I'll  set  Kadoc  on  the  search,  and  Fran- 
9ois.  Guard  these  women  well,  Sage.  (Sage  salutes.) 
Curse  such  bloodhound's  work,  Doctor!  (Exit.) 

RODELLEC.  Good  faith!  But  that  hunt  will  be 
worth  the  following !  There'll  be  sport  at  the  finish ! 

(Exit,  following  Laurent.) 


194  At  the  Barricade 

JEANNE.     Marton? 

MARTON.     Well,  child? 

JEANNE.  What  do  you  think  it  will  be  like, 
Marton, — the  minute  after? 

MARTON.     After — what? 

JEANNE.     After  we  have  stood — against  the  wall? 

THYMETTE.  Nothing  so  very  new,  pardieu !  We 
shall  find  ourselves  a  bit  colder  than  the  nights  last 
winter — voila  tout! 

MARTON.  Death  will  be  the  first  lover  who  ever 
touched  you  to  find  you  cold ! 

(Nicollette  enters  hastily.) 

ISTicoLLETTE.  (To  Sage.)  Monsieur!  Is  it  here 
the  Hotel  St.  Lunaire  lies?  Ah,  Monsieur,  I  am  so 
terrified.  All  this  noise — blood — Monsieur,  a  man 
fell  dead  at  my  feet  in  the  street  yonder ! 

THYMETTE.  Honor  us  with  your  presence  but  a 
half-hour,  Mademoiselle,  and  you  shall  see  three 
women  fall  "dead  at  your  feet!"  (Mocking  her 
accent  and  gesture.) 

NICOLLETTE.  Monsieur,  who  are  these  women? 
Why  are  they  wounded — and  bound?  One  of  them 
is  a  girl — like  me!  Ah!  (With  a  cry.)  They  are 
women  like  those  who  fought  in  the  street  yonder — 
they  are  petroleuses !  Monsieur,  you  will  not  shoot 
them?  They  are  women ! 

SAGE.     When  a  woman  puts  herself  in  a  bullet's 


At  the  Barricade  195 

way,  petite, — diantre!  She  must  not  grumble  at 
swallowing  the  bullet!  As,  for  instance,  when  she 
puts  herself  in  the  way  of  a  kiss,  she  must  not 
grumble 

(He  catches  her  ~by  the  waist.     She  struggles.) 

NICOLLETTE.  Let  me  go !  Let  me  go !  No  man 
but  Kadoc  shall  touch  my  lips.  I  promised 
.Kadoc Help!  Help,  I  say! 

(Kadoc  enters.) 

KADOC.     "Who  said  Kadoc?     Now  by  the  entrails 

of  the  devil (Catches  Sage  by  the  collar  and 

whirls  him  from  Nicollette.)  To-day's  been  a  dream 
from  the  start,  and  here's  more  dreaming!  You're 
not  real?  You're  never,  Nicollette?  )  Seizes  both 
her  hands.) 

(Sage  goes  up  stage  rulling  his  shoulders.) 

THYMETTE.  A  capital  entr'acte  of  comedy,  on  my 
soul!  Life  is  entertaining  to  the  fall  of  the  curtain! 

JEANNE.  He  has  eyes  like  my  Pierre,  that  soldier, 
and  big  kind  hands  like  my  Pierre !  And  his  hands 
will  never  touch  me  again !  Ah,  my  Pierre !  my 
Pierre! 

NICOLLETTE.  Kadoc!  It  is  a  dream,  as  you  say! 
How  came  you  here? 

KADOC.  That's  for  me  to  ask  you,  little  one! 
My  place  is  here — Monsieur  Laurent,  my  Lieutenant, 


196  At  the  Barricade 

is  here — man's  work  is  here ;   hut  a  woman?     How 
came  you  here,  little  sweetheart? 

NICOLLETTE.  Kadoc,  we  are  on  our  way  to  Eng 
land,  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  Mademoiselle  my  mis 
tress,  and  I.  Monsieur  the  Marquis  found  there  were 
papers,  jewels,  left  in  his  Hotel  St.  Lunaire,  yonder; 
he  would  not  leave  France  without  them.  Paris 
was  quiet  at  last,  they  told  us  down  in  Brittany — 
quiet  and  safe.  We  were  to  go  to  England  hy  way 
of  Paris.  Our  carriage  was  in  the  next  street — figure 
to  yourself !  so  near ! — when  on  a  sudden 

KADOC.  Theemeute!  Sapristi!  Yes!  It  swept 
on  us  in  a  moment,  as  the  storm  sweeps  up  the  old 
St.  Malo  shore ! 

NICOLLETTE.  Our  horses  were  shot — our  carriage 
overset — Mademoiselle  whispered,  "You  know  our 
town  house,  child;  reach  it  if  you  can — the  servants 
will  open  to  you." 

KADOC.  Servants?  Open!  The  Hotel  St. 
Lunaire  is  a  smoked-out  rooks'  nest!  But  its  cellar's 
good  hiding  for  you,  little  one,  till  we  are  sure  this 
tempest  is  spent.  Come ! 

NICOLLETTE.     Ah,  in  the  dark  one  can  be  safe! 

KADOC.  In  the  dark  one  can  steal, — peste !  Why 
should  one  wait,  then,  for  the  dark?  It's  all  a 
dream ! 

(Clasps  and  kisses  her.) 

MAETON.     And  that's  all  in  it  worth  dreaming! 


At  the  Barricade  197 

(Enter  Laurent.) 
LAURENT.     Kadoc ! 

(Kadoc  springs  erect  and  to  the  salute. 
Nicollette  so  Jiangs  lier  head  that  Laurent  does 
not  see  her  face.) 

LAURENT.  (As  a  drum-roll  is  heard  without.) 
Kadoc!  Playing  at  love  to  that  music!  At  this 
hour !  And  you  a  Breton  soldier ! 

KADOC.     Monsieur, — I — — 

(Claire  enters.) 

LAURENT.  Girl,  find  some  safer  place,  and  that 
quickly!  No  woman  who  values  life  or  honor  is 
found  in  Paris  streets  to-day ! 

CLAIRE.  I  count  that  less  than  courteously  said, 
Monsieur  the  Lieutenant ! 

LAURENT.  Claire!  Contesse!  God!  What 
does  an  angel  in  hell? 

CLAIRE.  Where  else  were  an  angel  so  needed, 
Monsieur,  or  where  should  she  be  so  welcome? 

LAURENT.  I — I  thought  you  safe  in  England, 
and  your  journey  ended ! 

CLAIRE.  My  faith!  I,  too,  thought  my  journey 
ended  but  now,  Monsieur,  when  a  Communist  bullet 
played  ungallant  barber  and  robbed  me  of  a  curl! 
A  half -inch  nearer,  and 


198  At  the  Barricade 

LAUEE:NT.  (Extending  his  hand  as  though  to 
touch  her  curls^  then  suddenly  ivithdrawing  it.) 
Claire!  (He  speaks  in  a  stifled  voice,  and  turns 
away  to  fight  down  his  emotion.) 

THYMETTE.  Will  they  rob  us  of  our  last  distinc 
tion,  these  aristocrats?  Diable!  That  was  a  prettier 
grimace  than  ever  /  made  at  Death ! 

CLAIEE.  Nay,  Monsieur,  why  shrink  at  the  men 
tion  of  Death's  shears,  when  the  shears  themselves 
have  touched  you,  too,  BO  close?  (She  indicates  a 
tear  in  his  uniform.) 

LAUEENT.  It  was  a  bayonet  thrust.  Jacques 
turned  it  from  my  heart.  But — it  was  not  then 
Death's  nearness  brought  me  fear.  It  is  now. 

CLAIEE.  Strange,  Monsieur,  when  now  is  the 
first  hour  in  months  that  I  have  known  no  fear. 

LAUEENT.  You  speak  riddles,  Contesse.  It  is 
part  of  this  evil  dream. 

CLAIEE.  Then  I  will  make  my  riddles  plain. 
(To  Nicollette.)  Go  you,  child,  as  the  Lieutenant 
bade  you.  Kadoc  will  have  leave  to  guard  you. 
(Laurent  lows.)  Find  if  our  hotel  stands,  and 
bring  me  word. 

NICOLLETTE.  Bien,  Contesse.  (To  Kadoc.) 
See  that  you  guard  me  well ! 

KADOC.      No  fear.       (Arm  around  her.)      You 
shall  see  I  know  how  to  hold  a  prisoner ! 
(Exeunt  Nicollette  and  Kadoc.) 


At  the  Barricade  .        199 

CLAIEE.  Monsieur,  the  fear  from  which  this  hour 
delivers  me  was  the  fear  that  I  might  never  find 
again  that  which  you  took  with  you  when  you  left 
our  old  Breton  chateau,  one  spring  morning,  a  twelve 
month  ago. 

LAURENT.  What  I  took  with  me,  Contesse? 
Nay,  I  took  with  me  nothing  not  my  own. 

CLAIRE.     You  are  sure  of  that,  Monsieur? 

LAURENT.  I  took  with  me  a  secret,  Contesse, 
that  was  mine — all  mine — because  I  had  no  right  to 
share  it ! 

CLAIRE.  And  you  took  with  you  also,  I  think, 
Monsieur,  a  something  that  was  not  yours — the 
something  that  held  your  secret,  —  my  heart, 
Monsieur ! 

LAURENT.  Contesse !  (Moves passionately  toward 
her.) 

CLAIRE.  Nay,  not  Contesse,  Laurent, — Claire! 
Claire,  your  old  playmate,  the  child  you  protected, 
the  girl  your  arm  taught  to  trust  man's  strength, 
that  your  soul  taught  to  trust  man's  goodness! 
Claire, — your  childhood's  friend, — your  manhood's — 

LAURENT.  My  manhood's  idol!  The  love  of 
all  my  life!  My  dream  of  heaven!  Claire!  (He 
falls  on  one  knee,  kissing  her  hands.  She  raises 
him.) 

CLAIRE.  Nay,  Laurent,  listen !  It  is  not  noble 
woman  that  speaks  to  officer  of  France — it  is  not 


2OO  At  the  Barricade 

maid  that  speaks  to  man — it  is  soul  that  cries  to  soul, 
across  the  barricade  of  flesh  that  any  moment  may 
tear  away !  I  have  lived  in  fear,  Laurent — the  fear 
lest  I  be  unworthy  the  dignity  of  a  noblewoman — lest 
I  shame  what  my  own  soul  has  taught  me  is  the  dig 
nity  of  a  maid,  who  may  not  speak  love,  with  the  lips 
no  love  has  kissed !  But  in  this  hour  such  barricades 
must  fall.  May  not  the  bullet  that  clipped  my  curl 
an  hour  ago  fly  nearer  in  the  hour  to  come?  May 
not  the  bayonet  that  missed  your  heart  but  now  find 
it,  before  my  heart  has  had  leave  to  speak?  Laurent, 
we  stand  as  spirit  to  spirit  in  Death's  freedom.  Tell 
me  you  love  me ! 

LAURENT.  I  love  you!  I  worship  you!  Soul 
and  flesh,  I  worship  you ! 

MARTON.  Tudieu !  But  it  seems  these  aristocrats 
can  also  teach  us  how  to  love ! 

LAURENT.     My  Claire!     You  knew  I  loved  you! 

CLAIRE.  I  knew;  and  therefore  my  love  leaped 
its  barricade.  Your  eyes  have  told  me  so,  my 
Laurent, — oh,  many  a  time ! — in  the  sweet  old  gar 
den,  in  the  sweet  lost  time !  But  your  lips 

LAURENT.  My  lips  dared  not,  Claire.  How 
dared  they — I,  a  poor  soldier  of  fortune — you,  a 
noblewoman  of  France,  the  petted  child  of  fortune ! 
I,  who  have  not  even  a  name  to  offer  you,  my 
daire — I,  who  owe  the  training  of  a  gentleman  to 
the  charity  of  the  man — your  guardian — whose 


At  the  Barricade  201 

charity  to  me  hints  my  shame  and  his.  Claire,  I  am 
nameless ! 

CLAIRE.  Not  nameless  from  this  hour,  my  lover ! 
My  name — will  you  not  make  it  yours?  I  am  the 
last  of  my  race.  No  man  lives  now  who  may  call 
himself  a  St.  Lunaire.  There  is  no  nobler  name  in 
Brittany — no  nobler  name  in  France!  Yours  is  the 
spirit  of  the  men  who  have  borne  it — the  men  behind 
whose  sword  their  king  was  safe — in  whose  love  was 
the  safety  of  a  woman!  (The  Marquis  enters.  He 
watches  them  through  his  lorgnette.)  Laurent!  If 
we  outlive  this  hour,  my  name  is  yours  as  now  my 
heart  is  yours, — take  it,  as  you  take — my  lips! 

LAURENT.  My  queen!  My  Claire!  (Kisses  her 
passionately.) 

THYMETTE.  (A  drum-roll  without.)  Diantre! 
One  can  after  all  play  at  love,  it  seems,  to  such 
music ! 

JEANNE.     Ah,  my  Pierre ! 

MARQUIS.  (Coming  forward.  He  is  lightly 
applauding.)  On  my  word,  as  pretty  a  love-scene  as 
I  ever  assisted  at  in  any  theatre.  And — jour  de  ma 
vie !  Did  I  not  deserve  applause  for  entering  so  pat 
upon  my  cue? 

MARTON.  The  first  cue  you  ever  took,  then,  from 
honest  lips — lache ! 

JEANNE.     You  know  the  man,  Marton? 

MARTON.     Every  girl  in  Brittany  with  eyes  of  any 


2O2  At  the  Barricade 

sort  has  had  opportunity  to  know  the  Marquis  Malre- 
vanche ! 

MAEQUIS.  Parole  d'honneur !  (Takes  snuff.)  It 
has  annoyed  me — but  yes,  seriously  annoyed  me! — to 
feel  that  I  have  missed  my  cue  more  than  once 
to-day!  It  bores  one  to  be  cast  for  a  part  one  is 
unfamiliar  with.  I  have  never  played  a  refugee. 
I  do  not  find  the  role  congenial ! 

(From  this  point  there  arise,  gradually,  the 
sounds  of  a  rising  emeute;  drum-roll,  shots, 
shouts,  the  tocsin,  and  the  Marsellaise;  ~but 
faint  at  first,  and  very  distant.) 

LAURENT      Monsieur  the  Marquis 

MARQUIS.  One  moment,  my  children!  One 
moment's  patience!  I  was  about  to  say  that  it  is 
most  gratifying  to  chance  on  a  cue  one  cannot 
miss, — and  my  obvious  line  is — Bless  you,  my  chil 
dren! 

CLAIRE.  I  thank  you,  Monsieur,  for  the  consent 
that  to-day  makes  it  unnecessary  for  me  to  ask ! 

MARQUIS.  Well  and  neatly  said,  my  ward!  We 
celebrate  your  birthday  but  ungallantly, — yet  it  seems 
to  bring  you  a  desired  gift  after  all !  Monsieur  the 
Lieutenant — may  I  add,  Monsieur  my  son? — let  us 
make  it  complete,  in  bringing  you  also  a  gift, — my 
name ! 

CLAIRE.     Monsieur  the  Marquis,  to-day  has  twice 


At  the  Barricade  203 

brought  my  hushand  an  honorable  name, — one  name 
won  by  brave  fighting, — one  name  offered  by  humble 
love! 

LAURENT.  Unworthy  as  I  am,  she  has  answered 
yon,  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  I  desire  no  other  name 
than  these. 

MARQUIS.  Yet  consider,  Monsieur  my  son.  But 
for  a  slight  legal  formality,  regrettably  omitted,  the 
name  had  been  yours  by  right  of  birth.  Yet  who 
could  regret  an  amiable  indiscretion  that  has  had 
such  a  consequence?  It  arranges  itself  so  con 
veniently!  The  lady  for  whom  the  formality  was 
observed,  neglected,  before  her  lamented  exit,  to  fur 
nish  an  heir  to  the  Malrevanches ; — another  lady  had 
already  generously  anticipated  that  deficiency — it  is 
perfect!  The  unclaimed  name — the  nameless  son! 
Voila! 

THYMETTE.     Such  as  he  is  make  revolutions! 

CLAIRE.  I  say  again,  to-day  brings  Laurent  what 
you  cannot  offer  him, — an  honorable  name,  Mon 
sieur  ! 

JEANNE.     Such  as  she  is  make — France! 

LAURENT.  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  you  have  given 
me  the  right  to  ask  you  the  question  on  which  all 
depends — for  me.  AY  ho  is  the  woman  who  must  bear 
your  name  before  I  bear  it?  Monsieur  the  Marquis, 
who  is  my  mother? 

MARQUIS.     Dieu  des  dieux !     There  you  bring  me 


204  At  the  Barricade 

to    an    embarrassment.      Who    was    your    mother? 
Frankly,  Monsieur  my  son,  I  do  not  remember ! 

(There  is  a  cry  without .  Nicollette  enters, 
struggling  in  the  grasp  of  Francois.  She  is 
weeping  with  fear.  Yvonne  follows;  she  twists 
Francoises  hands  from  Nicollette,  who  throws 
herself  soiling  at  Claire's  knees.) 

NICOLLETTE.  Mademoiselle!  Mademoiselle!  They 
broke  into  my  hiding-place,  these  soldiers!  They 
said  I  was  a  Petroleuse,  Mademoiselle!  That  I  was 
that  terrible  woman,  the  Petroleuse  they  were  seek 
ing,  Mademoiselle!  That  I  was  to  be  brought  here, 
and  shot  against  the  wall ! — that  I  was 

YVONNE.  (Advancing.)  That  she  was  Yvonne 
of  Guimperle — in  a  word,  that  she  was  I!  (Claire 
raises  Nicollette  and  tries  to  calm  her.) 

JEANNE  AND  THYMETTE.     Yvonne! 

LAUEENT.     Yvonne  of  Guimperle! 

YVONNE.  (With  a  mock  courtesy.)  At  your 
service,  Messieurs  my  executioners ! 

MARQUIS.  Yvonne !  Foi  de  mon  honneur !  And 
she  is  handsome  yet ! 

(Kadoc,  entering,  brings  a  folded  paper  to 
Laurent,  who  opening,  reads.  Yvonne  laughs 
with  the  women  as  the  soldiers  bind  her  arms.) 

KADOC.      The    Colonel's    orders,   Monsieur    the 


At  the  Barricade  205 

Lieutenant.      And    immediate!      (He  indicates  ly 
gesture  the  Petroleuses.) 

LAURENT.     Make  them  ready,  then, 
nothing — until  Mademoiselle  the  Contess< 
indicates  Claire's  departure  by  gesture.) 

(The  soldiers   tighten  the   binding  of   the 
women's  arms.) 

MAKTON.  What  fool's  work  brought  you  here, 
Yvonne? 

YVONNE.  A  fool's  will,  if  you  like,  comrades! 
I  had  safe  hiding  in  the  cellar  of  the  Hotel  St. 
Lunaire  yonder, — your  pardon  for  trespass,  Made 
moiselle  the  Contesse!  This  small  one  (Indicates 
Nicollette.)  was  brought  to  the  same  hiding  by  her 
big  lover.  Did  she  fear  me  when  she  found  me! 
Diantre,  no !  No  more  than  had  she  been  kitten  and 
I  cat,  instead  of  tiger !  My  word !  She  fed  me  bread 
and  wine — it  was  a  f6te!  Then  burst  in  these 
unmannerly  clowns — they  seized  her,  crying  we  have 
her — the  hell  cat — the  queen  of  the  Petroleuses! — 
She — the  queen  of  the  Petroleuses!  But  they  have 
perceptions,  these  gentlemen! 

(The  women  laugh.) 

THYMETTE.  She  might  have  convenienced  you, 
all  the  same,  by  filling  your  place — there!  (Indi 
cates  the  wall)  against  which  they  are  placing  Mar- 
ton,  sullenly  resisting.) 


206  At  the  Barricade 

YVONNE.  Diable !  No !  That  is  precisely  where 
she  could  not  take  my  place !  Is  all  my  vanity  dead? 
Should  they  say,  "So  Yvonne  of  Guimperle  dies"  of 
the  death  that  small  one  would  die?  The  death  of  a 
little  scared  kitten?  No!  I've  lived  my  own  life, 
I'll  die  my  own  death;  mille  tonnerres!  'Tis 
but  to  leap  one  more  barricade,  with  a  Perhaps  be 
yond  it ! 

LAURENT.  Let  Kadoc  take  you  and  Nicollette 
away,  my  Claire!  What  must  come  presently  is  not 
sight  for  woman's  eyes. 

CLAIEE.  Nor  work  for  men's  hands,  Laurent! 
They  are  women ! 

(Laurent  makes  a  gesture  of  despairing 
appeal,  indicating  his  helplessness  to  disobey 
orders.) 

MARQUIS.  (Crosses,  surveying  the  Petroleuses 
through  his  lorgnette. )  Ma  f oi !  It  is  of  course  the 
fortune  of  war,  but  all  the  same  it  is  a  pity  to  waste 
such  good  material! 

YVONNE.  (Squarely  facing  him.)  It  is  a  pity 
you  did  not  say  that  to  yourself  twenty-three  years 
ago,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  de  Malrevanche! 

MARQUIS.  You  do  me  the  honor,  then,  to 
remember  me? 

YVONNE.  My  excellent  memory  saved  your  life  a 
half  hour  ago,  Monsieur.  When  my  people  so  rudely 


At  the  Barricade  207 

interrupted  your  journey  yonder,  I  struck  up  the 
pistol  that  was  billeting  you  for  a  longer  journey. 

MARQUIS.  And  to  be  remembered  kindly!  How 
gratifying ! 

YVONNE.  If  you  put  it  so.  Frankly,  I  reasoned 
thus,  Monsieur.  The  chances  are  I  travel  the  dark 
road  within  an  hour  or  two.  God  save  me  from 
meeting  him  upon  it !  So  I  ensured  your  remaining 
behind ! 

MARQUIS.  Truly  woman  varies !  This  was  hardly 
your  attitude  two  and  twenty  years  ago,  my  dear ! 

YVONNE.  Are  you  sure  you  knew  my  attitude, 
Monsieur?  My  action — yes, — my  motive — no!  Van 
ity  has  ever  been  your  weakness,  Monsieur.  I  have 
sometimes  thought  you  may  have  fancied  I  loved 
you! 

MARQUIS.  The  fancy  is  pardonable,  perhaps, 
when  one  considers  that  yonder  stands — our  son ! 

LAURENT.     My  mother !     Claire !     God !  God ! 

CLAIRE.      Laurent!      Her     courage    is    in    your 


YVONNE.  As  you  say — our  son.  Your  servant, 
Monsieur,  our  son!  We  were  speaking  of  love,  I 
think?  Monsieur,  all  my  life  it  has  been  my  whim 
to  leap  barricades.  Two  and  twenty  years  ago  I 
dreamed  my  youth  and  beauty  might  lend  me  wings 
to  leap  the  barricade  of  rank.  I  thought  to  be  a 
Marquise,  Monsieur!  Hence, — our  son!  You  were 


208  At  the  Barricade 

too  clever  for  me ;  for  the  first  and  last  time  a  barri 
cade  baffled  me.  But  love — Monsieur,  I  am  a  woman 
of  taste ! 

THYMETTE.     She  is  magnificent! 

(Laurent  advances  to  Yvonne,  and  begins  to 
unbind  her  arms,  straining  at  the  twists  of  the 
ropes.  He  is  tensely  white.) 

MARQUIS.     What  are  you  doing? 

CLAIRE.  His  duty,  Monsieur — how  should  you 
comprehend  it? 

YVONNE.     Why  do  you  release  me? 

LAURENT.     You  are  my  mother. 

YVONNE.     You  know  what  I  am? 

LAURENT.     You  are  my  mother. 

YVONNE.  Do  you  know  what  you  do,  boy,  I  say? 
You  free  the  best  hated  woman  in  all  Paris, — the 
woman  on  whose  head  your  army  sets  a  price! 

LAURENT.     You  are  my  mother. 

YVONNE.  In  loosing  me  you  put  the  ropes  on 
your  own  wrists.  It  is  treason. 

LAURENT.     You  are  my  mother. 

YVONNE.  Eeflect,  if  you  can.  Do  you  count  on 
this  man's  favor  when  you  stand  cashiered — dis 
graced — your  sword  snapped  before  your  face?  You 
do  not  know  this  man ! 

LAURENT.     You  are  my  mother.  * 

YVONNE.     Do  you  think  this  girl  will  reach  her 


At  the  Barricade  209 

hand  to  you  across  prison  bars?     You  do  not  know 
our  nobility ! 

LAURENT.     You  are  my  mother. 

(He  breaks  the  last  knot.  She  stands  chafing 
her  wrists,  red  from  the  ropes,  and  surveys 
him,  keenly  and  curiously.) 

YVONNE.  And  for  what  I  am  you  will  give  up 
honor — name — love — life? 

LAURENT.     For  my  mother. 

YVONNE.  Tudieu!  (With  a  short  laugh.)  But  I 
doubt  after  all  if  you  are  the  son  of  the  Marquis ! 
Will  you  give  me  one  thing  more,  having  given  me 
so  much?  Monsieur  my  son, — may  I  kiss  you? 

LAURENT.     If  you  will — my  mother! 

(Yvonne  throws  her  left  arm  about  Laurent's 
neck,  and  kisses  him  full  and  long  on  the  lips. 
With  her  right  hand  she  swiftly  and  softly 
takes  his  pistol  from  his  belt.  Releasing  him, 
she  faces  him,  holding  the  pistol  behind  her.) 

YVONNE.  Turn  for  turn — I  have  given  it  all  my 
life!  Why  should  I  change  policy  because  the  last 
turn  is  a  good  one?  Monsieur  my  son,  you  freed  me, 
— I  free  you !  (She  shoots  herself — staggering  back 
ward.)  I  have  leaped  my  last — barricade!  (Falls 
backward  across  the  barricade.) 

LAURENT.     (Rushing  to  her.)     Woman! 


2io  At  the  Barricade 

CLAIRE.     Nay,  Laurent! — Mother! 

(TJiere  is  a  crash  of  drums  without;  fusil 
lades  and  cries.  Kadoc  rushes  in.) 

KADOC.  Monsieur  the  Lieutenant,  the  emeute 
rises  again !  They  will  try  to  make  this  barricade ! 

LAURENT.  Claire !  In  God's  name,  let  me  make 
you  safe ! 

CLAIRE.  I  am  safe  beside  you,  my  Laurent! 
There  is  one  more  shot  in  your  pistol.  (She  raises 
the  pistol  that  has  fallen  from  Yvonne"1 s  hand.) 

(There  comes  a  mad  rush  of  revolutionaires 
and  soldiers.  The  Petroleuses  are  released. 
Jeanne  cries  "Pierre!  my  Pierre!"  as  a 
stalwart  soldier  catches  her  in  his  arms.  He 
bears  her  off,  fainting.  Thymette  rushes 
forward,  a  knife  in  her  hand.  She  kneels  to 
Claire,  catching  and  kissing  the  hem  of  her 
gown. ) 

THYMETTE.  This  to  you,  Mademoiselle!  (She 
buries  her  knife  in  the  Marquis's  side.)  And  this  to 
you,  Monsieur!  Follow  me,  my  women! 

(She  rushes  out,  the  fight  swirling  after  her. 
The  Marquis  stands  quite  erect,  for  a  moment, 
the  hand  that  holds  the  lace  handkerchief 
pressed  hard  against  his  wounded  side.  He 
removes  it,  and  glances  at  it,  his  face  clouded 


At  the  Barricade  2ii 

by  a  slight  spasm,  as  he  sees  it  is  stained  with 
his  life-blood.     He  opens  his  hand  and  the 
handkerchief  flutters  down  to  the  floor.) 
MAKQUIS.      Apparently  one  does  not — miss — the 

cue  for — one's — exit.     (He  staggers  and  falls;    with 

his  face  upturned. ) 

(Laurent  rushes  back,  the  flag  in  his  hand. 
He  plants  the  flag  on  the  barricade.  He 
hastens  to  Claire,  catching  her  hand  and  kiss 
ing  it,  in  an  ecstasy  of  passionate  relief  at 
finding  her  safe.  She  points  to  the  dead 
Marquis.  He  comes  down,  his  S'word  in  hand, 
and  stands  looking  at  his  dead  father,  in  a 
kind  of  daze.  Claire  comes  softly  down,  and 
slips  her  hand  into  his.  He  lifts  his  hat  from 
his  head,  as  if  unconsciously,  looking  down 
still  at  the  dead  man.) 

(CURTAIN.) 


Galatea  of  the   Toy-Shop 

A    FANTASY    IN    ONE    ACT 


Galatea  of  the  Toy-Shop 


DKAMATIS   PEESON^. 

OSCAR  SCHWAEZ,  a  German  toy-maker. 
GALATEA,  a  doll. 

The  place  is  Germany.     The  time  is  the  present. 
The  scene  is  Oscar's  work-room. 

TJie  scene  is  the  interior  of  the  ivork-room  of  a 
German  toy-shop.  Across  the  back,  there  runs  a  low, 
broad  latticed  window.  A  large  work-bench ,  back,  C. 
is  littered  with  all  sorts  of  tools.  Toys  of  all  sorts 
are  scattered  about  the  room,  ad  lib.  The  furnishing , 
rough  and  simple,  is  as  foreign  in  suggestion  as  pos 
sible.  At  the  R.  C.  is  a  wooden  stand,  with  a  railed 
top,  from  which  hang  calico  curtains:  concealing  the 
figure  within.  On  the  tuall,  R.  is  a  telephone,  which 
rings,  as  the  curtain  is  rising.  Oscar  Schwarz  is 
215 


216  Galatea  of  the  Toy-Shop 

seated  on  a  stool,  R.  (7.,  working  busily  at  a  steel 
spring.  He  is  in  the  blouse  of  a  workman.  He  is 
humming  or  whistling  the  last  few  bars  of  Die 
Lorelei  which  is  the  curtain  music. 

OSCAE.  Du  Lieber !  But  I  do  not  think  I  have 
the  curve  yet !  And  until  I  get  the  curve,  this  spring 
that  is  to  make  the  voice  of  my  most  beautiful  of 
dolls, — my  queen  of  dolls — (With  an  adoring  gesture 
toward  the  closed  curtains.)  her  voice  will  be  like 
the  squawk  of  a  crow  who  has  eaten  of  green  apples ! 
It  is  her  only  fault — that  voice !  I  have  the  perfect- 
est  doll  in  the  world,  when  this  sprine;  gets  the  true 
curve,  and  my  doll  says  "Papa!"  "Mamma!"  like 
a  cherub,  and  not  like  a  crow  after  green  apples! 
(The  telephone  rings  again.)  Tausend  teufels !  I  was 
just  getting  the  curve,  and  now  I  must  lose  it  to 
scream  with  some  fool,  at  this  accursed  box  in  the 
wall !  (He  angrily  lays  down  his  work,  and  goes  to 
the  telephone.)  Hello,  thou,  Fritz?  No,  I  cannot 
come  to  the  beer-drinking  to-night !  My  doll  is  not 
finished:  and  the  prize  competition  for  the  doll- 
makers  of  all  Germany,  opens  but  two  days  off !  For 
my  doll  she  is  all  but  her  voice  the  perfectest  doll 
in  Germany:  and  her  voice — ah!  my  Fritz!  Her 
voice — it  is  to  hear  it,  as  if  the  devil's  dentist  sat 
astride  thy  front  teeth  with  a  saw !  It  is  her  voice- 
spring  that  I  curve  at  this  moment.  Wherefore  I 


Galatea  of  the  Toy-Shop  217 

can  have  neither  beer  nor  thee!  Yes,  if  my  doll  take 
not  the  prize,  I  am  ruined.  Yes,  my  Fritz!  My 
father  is  a  pig  and  the  son  of  pigs — What  is  it  thou 
sayest?  The  father  of  pigs?  Get  thee  where  beer 
cannot  quench  thirst!  Yes,  my  father  will  cut  me 
from  his  house,  if  I  bring  not  home  a  wife  instantly ! 
A  wife!  I!  Better  the  lost  prize,  and  the  river! 
Good  luck,  my  Fritz!  Drink  many  steins  to  the 
voice  of  my  doll.  (He  hangs  up  the  telephone  and 
returns  to  his  work.)  A  wife!  Who  frowns  on  the 
beer,  and  demands  that  the  friends  of  the  husband 
wear  clean  collars !  A  wife !  Pig  of  a  father !  (He 
crosses  to  the  stand,  and  lifts  the  curtain  at  the  back) 
so  that  the  audience  cannot  see  ivithin.)  Now  let  us 
once  more  try  the  spring!  In  it  goes!  Ah,  sure  the 
curve  is  exact.  Now  let  us  touch  it,  and  hear  the 
sweet  little  voice  say  " Mamma!"  (He  makes  a 
motion  as  touching  a  spring,  and  there  comes  from 
within  the  curtain  a  raucous  and  ear-splitting  yell 
of  '  <•  Mar-mar! !! ' ' — He  j-umps  wildly  back. )  Donner 
und  Blitzen !  What  have  I  done !  It  is  thrice  worse 
than  before !  It  is  the  nightmare  dream  after  pork ! 
(From  within,  the  voice  repeats  "Mar-mar!"  in  a 
gradual  diminuendo,  but  always  most  discordantly, 
until  it  dies  away  in  a  hoarse  and  jerky  whisper.) 
That  spring  is  in  on  the  wrong  side  up!  It  is 
bewitched,  that  spring!  What  shall  I  do?  0,  me 
miserable — and  the  competition  opens  but  two  days 


218  Galatea  of  the  Toy-Shop 

off!  (The  telephone  rings  again.)  Donnerwetter ! 
Once  more!  (Rushes  madly  to  the  telephone.)  Hello! 
I  will  talk  with  nobody!  Yes,  I  am  Oscar  Schwarz! 
But  I  am  not  here !  I  am  away !  I  am  dead !  Since 
yesterday  I  am  dead :  and  the  doctors  say  I  am  to 
speak  to  no  one,  for  the  fear  of  contagion!  Eh? 
It  is  you,  my  father?  Well,  then,  I  am  not  dead: 
but  I  soon  will  be,  if  I  am  not  left  alone  to  finish  the 
accursed  voice-spring  of  my  doll!  A  wife?  My 
father,  I  have  sought  no  wife!  I  will  have  no  wife! 
Furthermore — yes,  to-morrow  is  my  birthday — and 
my  death-day  it  shall  also  be,  if  you  leave  me  not 
alone  with  the  spring  for  the  voice  of  my  doll !  If  I 
find  me  a  wife  before  to-morrow,  I  shall  have  the 
half  of  my  heirship — and  if  I  find  one  not,  you  cut 
me  off  forever?  Cut  me  off,  then,  father  of  a  pig! — 

I  mean,  son  of  a  pig!  Cut  me  off ! !    Cut  me (He 

jumps  lack  from  the  telephone,  as  from  an  explosion.) 
But  cut  me  not  off  with  a  bang  that  destroys  the  last 
ear  Heaven  gave  me !  (He  returns  the  receiver  to  the 
hook,  rubbing  his  ear  dolefully.)  It  is  ended!  Unless 
I  can  shape  the  spring  to  give  my  doll  the  cherub's 
voice  to  match  her  cherub's  face,  I  am  a  done  man! 
(He  approaches  the  stand,  and  stands  with  his  hand 
on  the  front  curtain.)  Let  me  once  look  on  thee — 
perfectest  result  of  mine  art !  Let  me  gaze  on  thy 
face  with  its  red  and  white — on  thy  little  hands,  that 
I  have  made  to  extend  themselves  as  if  they  greeted 


Galatea  of  the  Toy-Shop  219 

the  world — on  thy  tiny  feet,  that  I  have  made  to 
carry  thee,  as  if  thou  thyself  did  guide  them!  (As 
he  speaks,  he  slowly  draws  the  curtains.  Galatea  is 
discovered  on '  the  pedestal.  Her  coloring  is  that  of  a 
dainty  doll.  She  is  in  a  white  lace -trimmed  petti 
coat,  rather  short,  showing  pretty,  high-heeled  slip 
pers;  she  has  a  low-necked  bodice,  as  it  might  be  a 
corset-cover,  or  the  waist  of  a  chemise;  the  effect  of 
being  all  dressed,  except  the  outer  dress.)  Ah,  vision 
that  thou  art!  How  shall  I  dress  thee,  when  the 
spring  is  rightly  in  its  place  and  thou  art  complete? 
Shall  it  be  the  dress  of  a  fine  Paris  dame,  that  I  have 
yon?  (As  he  turns  his  face  toward  his  work -table, 
her  face  turns  too,  unseen  by  him,  in  the  same  direc 
tion;  but  mechanically  and  sloiuly,  as  if  a  spring 
luorked  stiffly.)  Or  shall  it  be  the  little  gown  of  a 
dear  German  house-mistress?  In  either  thou  wilt  be 
adorable,  thou  perfectest  of  dolls !  (Before  he  again 
looks  at  her,  she  has  turned  her  head  to  its  original 
position.)  In  any  dress  how  lovesome  thou  wilt  seem! 
How  the  so  happy  child  to  whom  thou  wilt  belong 
when  Christinas  comes,  will  kiss  those  perfect  lips! 
I  all  but  wish  I  were  that  child !  Nay — no  one  sees ! 
I  will  be  as  that  child,  and  taste  if  thy  lips  be  as 
sweet  as  they  seem !  (He  kisses  her.  Her  eyes  move 
from  side  to  side.  She  smiles,  and  makes  a  few 
jerky  motions,  as  if  coming  gradually  alive.  He 
starts  back,  in  terror  and  amaze.) 


22O  Galatea  of  the  Toy-Shop 

GALATEA.  (Speaking  in  the  same  raucous  yell, 
as  that  in  which  she  spoke,  behind  the  curtain.)  Do 
that,  yet  once  again! 

OSCAE.  Mine  Heaven!  She  speaks!  Yet  speak 
ing  it  is  not :  for  the  spring  of  her  stomach  is  upside 
down! 

GALATEA.     Do  it  yet  again — again! 

OSCAE.     (Stammering.)     Do — what? 

GALATEA.  How  know  I  what  you  call  it?  This! 
(Purses  her  lips  as  for  a  kiss.)  It  brought  me 
awake — that :  but  I  would  be  awaker! — again ! 

OSCAE.  Speak  no  more,  for  the  pity  of  me!  I 
will  kiss  theo  ten  times, — it  is  no  great  penance!  but 
in  mercy  cease  that  crow -scream ! 

(He  kisses  her  again;  she  smiles,  and  begins 
to  jerkily  descend  from  her  pedestal.) 

GALATEA.     It  is  not  easily  that  I  come! 

(She  pauses  with  her  foot  in  mid-air,  with 
a  kick-like  motion,  as  if  the  spring  for  a 
moment  refused  to  work;  then,  gaining  control 
of  herself,  jerkily  comes  down  from  out  of  the 
stand.) 

GALATEA.     Something  stiffs  me!     Can't  you  un- 
stiff  me?     (Sharply — as  he  stands  in  a  daze.)     You 
made  me, — didn't  you? 
OSCAE.     I  suppose  so! 
GALATEA.     Then  un- stiff  me!     My  arms— they 


Galatea  of  the  Toy-Shop  221 

will  not  work  at  all !  (She  abruptly  stretches  out  one 
arm,  hitting  him  so  that  he  reels.)  Ah,  yes!  The 
arms  work  more  better  than  I  thought — better  than 
the  legs !  (She  makes  as  if  to  kick;  he  precipitately 
lacks  away.) 

OSCAE.  You  need  not  be  anxious — you're  less 
stiff  than  most  young  women  I  know ! 

GALATEA.     Am  I  a  young  woman? 

OSCAR.     Well,  yes — partly! 

GALATEA.     What  do  you  mean  by  * 'partly"? 

(Her  voice  throughout  this  scene  is  very 
queer;  alternating  between  a  sudden  raucous 
yell,  and  a  hoarse  whisper;  with  as  many 
sudden  and  droll  variations  as  possible.) 

OSCAE.  Well,  you  are  a  young  woman, — and  you 
aren't, — you  know! 

GALATEA.  How  aren't  I?  I  will  be  a  young 
woman!  I  came  awake  on  purpose  to  be  a  young 
woman !  (She  bursts  into  the  queerest  possible  laugh.) 

0  my  soul!     My  soul!     My  inside  is  made  wrong! 

1  could  cry  loudly  because  I  am  only  partly  a  young 
woman ! — and  I  can  only  do — so — instead !     ( With  a 
repetition  of  the  queer  laugh.)     Tell  me  why — why — 
I  am  only  partly  a  young  woman ! 

OSCAE.     Well — for  one  thing — your  voice  isn't — 

isn't 

GALATEA.     Don't  all  young  women  speak  like  me? 


222  Galatea  of  the  Toy-Shop 

(Rising  to  a  sudden,  calliope-like  shriek,  on  the  last 
word.) 

OSCAR.     The  Lord  forbid! 

GALATEA.  You  made  me — well,  then,  why  didn't 
you  make  me  right?  Can't  you  oil  me,  or  some 
thing?  Maybe  I'm  dry! 

OSCAR.  Donnerwetter !  Maybe  that's  it!  (He 
runs  to  his  table,  and  fetches  down  a  tankard  of 
beer.)  Here!  Drink  quickly ! 

GALATEA.     What  is  that? 

OSCAR.  I  made  her, — and  she  asks — What  is  that! 
It  is  beer ! 

GALATEA.     What  is — beer? 

OSCAR.     We  do  not  describe  beer : — we  drink  it ! 

GALATEA.  0!  It  is  to  drink?  (She  sips  it 
daintily;  takes  down  the  can,  for  a  moment,  with  an 
expression  of  amazed  and  ecstatic  delight;  and  then 
hastily  raises  the  can  to  her  lips  again,  and  drains 
its  last  drop. )  More ! — Again  some  beer ! — Much, — 
much — more  beer! 

(Her  voice  is  queer  on  the  first  word  or  two; 
but  immediately  softens,  and  she  ends  in  a 
sweet  and  girlish  tone.) 

OSCAR.  A  miracle!  The  beer  has  turned  the 
spring  right  side  up !  Her  voice  is  mellow  as  honey 
from  the  comb ! 

GALATEA.     More  beer !     Much — much  more  beer ! 


Galatea  of  the  Toy-Shop  223 

OSCAR.  Not  now;  you  are  new  to  it — and  your 
voice — well,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  beer  making  us 
too  mellow! 

GALATEA.  I  foresee  I  shall  he  dry  and  scream 
again.  And  am  I  now  really  a  young  woman? 

OSCAE.     Well — as  to  your  dress 

GALATEA.     Do  not  young  women  wear  dresses? 

(She  makes  as  if  to  loose  the  band  of  her 
petticoat.     He  hastily  stops  her.) 

OSCAE.  Yes — yes — indeed,  I  may  say  young 
women  wear — rather  more  dress ! 

GALATEA.  Very  well,  then — you  made  me. 
Where  are  the  rather  more  dress?  Produce  the 
rather  more  dress !  Surely  you  have  the  rather  more 
dress — if  you  made  me  to  be  a  young  woman ! 

OSCAE.  Don't  let  it  hurt  your  feelings — but  I  am 
afraid  I  made  you  to  be  a  doll ! 

GALATEA.  Is  there  such  a  great  difference 
between  a  young  woman  and  a  doll? 

OSCAE.  Truly,  that  depends.  I  have  known  a 
good  many  young  women  that  were  dolls;  but  I 
never  before  have  known  a  doll  that  was  a  young 
woman. 

GALATEA.  I  prefer  to  be  a  young  woman.  Dolls 
are  not  kissed — at  least,  they  are  not  nicely  kissed, 
as  I  was,  just  now.  Dolls  cannot  drink  beer !  Ah ! 
Beer!  (With  an  affectionate  gesture  toward  the 


224  Galatea  of  the  Toy-Shop 

tankard.)      Decidedly,   I  will   be  a  young  woman. 
Produce  the  rather  more  dress ! 

OSCAR.  I — I  had  not  yet  decided  what  you  were 
to  wear. 

GALATEA.  Now  I  am  awake,  I  will  myself  decide 
that.  A  young  woman  need  not  be  long  awake  to 
decide  what  to  wear. 

OSCAK.  I  had  thought  to  dress  you  as  a  French 
demoiselle — perhaps  as  a  little  German  hausfrau. 
See !  Here  is  the  one  dress  and  here  is  the  other. 

(ffe  goes  to  his  table,  and  takes  from  a  box, 
the  two  costumes.     Both  must  be  correct;  the 
French  gown  dainty  and  chic;  the  German  one 
pretty  and  simple;  but  both  must  be  made  on 
the  princess  model,  in  a  single  piece,  so  that 
they  can  be  easily  slipped  on.) 
GALATEA.     (Catching  at  the  French  gown.)     Ah, 
that  is  of  France.    I  know,  for  the  French  doll  that 
stood  beside  me  was  so  dressed !     I  wonder,  did  she 
come  awake,  that  French  doll?     DuLieber!     (Turn 
ing  to  him  in  an  explosion  of  suspicion.)     You  did 
not  kiss  that  French  doll? 

OSCAK.     I  sold  her.     I  never  kissed  a  doll  but  thee. 
GALATEA.     Nor  a  young  woman? 
OSCAR.       (Hastily.)       You    are    dry,    perhaps? 
Another  mug  of  beer? 

(He  hands  her  the  beer,  which  she  drinks 
ecstatically,  as  before.) 


Galatea  of  the  Toy-Shop  225 

GALATEA.  It  is  good.  But  you  will  not  kiss 
another  doll — nor  another  young  woman !  Now  put 
on  my  gown.  (Holds  out  her  arms  stiffly.} 

OSCAR.  (Fastens  the  gown  rapidly  but  rtawk- 
wardly.)  I  am  not  wise  in  dressing  dolls. 

GALATEA.     Nor  young  women? 

OSCAE.     May  Heaven  forbid! 

GALATEA.  Now  I  am  finished — and  I  am  very 
good  to  look  at ! 

OSCAR.  How  are  you  sure  of  that?  There  is  no 
mirror. 

GALATEA.  There  are  two  mirrors  that  tell  me  so — 
this  mirror,  and  that  mirror !  (She  touches  his  eyes, 
softly,  one  after  the  other.)  What  other  mirror  does 
a  young  woman  need,  than  the  eyes  of  a  young  man? 

OSCAR.  Lieher  Himmel !  And  but  an  hour  ago, 
thou  wast  a  doll ! 

GALATEA.  I  have  been  kissed  since  then.  More 
over,  I  am  French  now ;  and  French  young  women 
come  early  very  wide  awake. 

OSCAR.     Why  that? 

GALATEA.  Ah,  in  Paris  the  world  is  wide  awake — 
night  and  day  it  wakes !  Watch  me,  and  see  what 
like  is  Paris!  (In  the  speech  that  follows,  she  imper 
sonates  as  fully  as  possible,  every  scene  of  which  she 
is  speaking.)  The  Paris  of  the  morning — the  sun  is 
on  the  white  pavements — they  are  new-sprinkled,  and 
so  clean — so  clean !  The  grass  is  fresh  in  the  parks — 


226  Galatea  of  the  Toy-Shop 

the  bonnes,  the  pretty  nurse-maids,  in  their  pert  caps 
and  big  aprons — they  wheel  the  perambulators  with 
the  rosy  babies.  But  they  are  not  looking  at  the 
babies — they  are  looking  at  the  gend'armes,  who 
march  by,  so  natty  and  so  proud,  twisting  the  little 
moustache — as  thus.  And  the  bonnes  are  looking — 
thus— from  under  the  lashes.  "Good  morning, 
Mademoiselle!"  "A  fine  day,  Monsieur!"  "Are 
all  mademoiselle's  promenades  taken  in  company  with 
this  encumbering  machine?"  (Indicating  the  imag 
inary  perambulator.)  "No,  truly,  Monsieur,  this 
most  afflicting  infant  is  sometimes  asleep  in  her 
creche!"  "And  then,  Mademoiselle,  there  may  be 
opportunity."  "Truly,  as  you  say,  Monsieur,  there 
may  be  opportunity."  And  so  they  pass, — he  with 
his  little  moustache,  she  with  her  lashes.  Noon, 
then — the  sun  so  hot  and  strong  on  the  big,  splendid 
boulevard.  Hark!  From  the  Arc  de  Triomphe, 
hear  the  crash  of  the  trumpets — the  drums — the  drums 
— r-r-r -rub-a-dub-dub!  ta-ra-ra-ta-ra !  See  the  flash 
of  the  bayonets !  How  straight  they  march !  One — 
two — one — two ! — tramp !  tramp !  For  death  or  glory ! 
Aux  armes,  citoyens!  (Singing  a  bar  of  the  Marsel- 
laise.)  Tramp!  tramp!  Tra-ra-ra!  Eub-a-dub-dub! 
(She  imitates  the  effect  of  the  music  and  the  tramping 
growing  fainter  and  dying  away.)  And  pouf !  The 
soldiers  are  also  gone.  And  bye  and  bye  it  is  night. 
The  streets  are  ablaze !  How  the  glow  streams  from 


Galatea  of  the  Toy-Shop  227 

the  doors  of  the  Grand  Opera!  Within,  the  stage  is 
set  for  great  Wagner  night — it  is  the  moment  when 
Brunhilda  defies  Criemhilda, — how  they  scream  and 
storm!  (She  imitates,  ad  lib.,  the  scene  between  the 
women,  ending  in  Criemhilda's  death.)  After  the 
theatre — well,  if  one  has  a  fancy  to  see  a  pretty 
dance, — a  dance  where  the  slipper  leaves  nothing  to 
be  guessed  of  itself.  (She  imitates  a  high  Icicle.) 
Pouf !  Ifc  is  dawn  before  we  know — dawn — br-r-r-r — 
(With  a  simulated  shiver.)  How  cold  the  dawn- 
wind  is !  How  cold  the  light,  after  the  glare  of  the 
cafe  lights !  How  terrible  is  the  dawn  light !  How 
much  the  dawn  light  knows !  What  are  the  white 
women  coming  down  the  street  in  the  grey  light? 
They  wear  white  veils  that  stir  in  the  dawn-wind  as 
the  lily's  petals  stir.  And  theirs  are  lily  faces — 
lilies  in  the  bud !  Uncover  as  they  go  by !  They  go 
to  their  first  communion — with  the  souls  of  lilies,  and 
the  dawn-light  on  their  hair!  Do  you  see  who  is 
watching  them — standing  far  back  in  the  shadows? 
It  is  the  dancing  woman  of  the  cafe — the  woman  with 
the  rouge  and  the  bold  eyes  and  the  foot  that  danced 
too  high — see  her  eyes,  as  she  watches — how  haggard 
they  are !  Do  you  hear  what  she  is  muttering  to  her 
self?  "I  was  once  like  them !  I  was  once  like  them! 
And  now — 0 !  There  is  but  one  cleansing  for  such 
as  I — let  me  to  the  river!  Let  me  to  the  river!" 
(Oscar  catches  her  as  she  almost  falls.) 


228  Galatea  of  the  Toy-Shop 

OSCAK.  Cover  that  dress!  Cover  that  dress,  I 
say!  What  do  you  know  of  Paris?  You  shall  not 
wear  the  dress  of  Paris !  Cover  it,  I  say,  with  the 
honest  dress  of  a  good  German  wife!  (He  aids  her 
to  slip  on  over  her  gay  French  gown,  the  simple  gown 
of  a  German  girl  of  the  middle  class.)  There!  Gott 
sei  dank !  You  are  of  that  evil  life  no  longer ! 

GALATEA.  Nay,  now  I  am  of  another  land.  It  is 
home  that  folds  me  in — it  is  almost  time  for  the 
goodman  to  be  here  for  the  supper !  (She  makes  as 
if  setting  a  table,  and  feeding  a  fire.)  How  quietly 
the  little  one  sleeps !  (She  lends  over  an  imaginary 
cradle,  very  gently  lifting  an  imaginary  baby  in  her 
arms.)  Sleep,  Kindlein!  Ah,  sleep!  The  child's 
home  is  the  mother's  breast!  Sleep!  (She  rocks  the 
imaginary  baby  to  and  fro,  crooning  to  it.  Then  she 
lays  it  back  in  the  cradle.)  Lieber  Himmel !  It  is 
his  step !  He  is  here !  (She  rushes  to  Oscar,  catch 
ing  him  in  her  arms.)  Welcome!  It  is  thou!  Thou 
art  at  home ! 

OSCAR.  Ay,  indeed  I  am  at  home!  Nay,  thou 
shalt  not  leave  my  arms!  'Twas  I  kissed  thee  awake! 
Thou  art  mine— and  no  other  shall  make  my  home 
— only  thou !  Only  thou ! 

GALATEA.  Ay,  it  was  thou  kissed  me  awake, — 
and  when  thou  kissest  me  no  more,  then  let  me  sleep 
indeed ! 

(CURTAIL.) 


Appendix 


NOTES   ON   THE   PLAYS. 

It  may  be  that  those  who  hereafter  take  part  in  the 
plays  included  in  the  present  volume,  will  find  it  of 
interest  to  know  by  whom  the  plays  were  originally 
produced:  and  what  players  have  heretofore  inter 
preted  their  characters.  Hence  the  notes  appended. 

PO'  WHITE   TRASH 

Was  first  produced  by  Henry  Woodruff, — for  whom 
the  part  of  "Drent  Dury"  was  written, — at  the 
Bijou  Theatre,  Boston,  at  a  special  matinee,  given  on 
March  25,  1897.  On  this  occasion,  Mr.  Woodruff 
appeared  as  "DKENT";  Miss  Minnie  Dupree  as 
"CAROL";  Miss  Maud  Hosford  as  "SUKE";  Mr. 
Eugene  Ormonde  as  " JUDGE  PAGE";  Mr.  Joseph 
Brennen  as  "DR.  PAYKE";  Mr.  William  B.  Smith 
as  "ZEP";  Miss  Rachel  Noah  as  "SAL";  and  Miss 
Mabel  Dixey  as  "MiLLY." 

229 


230  Appendix 

The  play  was  again  given  by  Mr.  Woodruff,  at  the 
Lyceum  Theatre,  New  York,  on  April  22,  1898. 
Mr.  Woodruff  again  appeared  as  "DRENT"  and  Miss 
Hosford  as  "SUKE";  the  "SAL"  was  Miss  Ina  Ham 
mer;  the  "CAROL,"  Miss  Jessie  Mackaye;  the  "DR. 
PAYNE,"  Mr.  Eugene  Jepson;  the  "JUDGE  PAGE," 
Mr.  Geo.  Fullerton;  the  "MiLLY,"  Miss  Helen 
Lowell;  the  "ZEP,"  Mr.  John  Bunny. 

The  play  was  used  professionally  by  Mr.  Daniel 
Frawley,  on  his  Western  tour  of  the  season  of 
1898-99/  "DRENT"  was  then  played  by  Mr.  Alfred 
Hickman. 

IN  FAK   BOHEMIA 

Was  first  produced  at  a  benefit  performance,  at  the 
Bijou  Theatre,  Boston,  on  the  evening  of  January 
18,  1898.  On  this  occasion,  "KAREN"  was  played 
by  Miss  Minnie  Dupree;  "ALEC"  by  Mr.  Horace 
Lewis;  and  "MRS.  PENNYPACKER"  by  Miss  Kate 
Eyan. 

A   COMEDIE   EOYALL 

Was  first  produced  at  the  Bijou  Theatre,  Boston,  by 
Mr.  Henry  Woodruff,  on  March  25,  1897.  Mr. 
Woodruff  appeared  as  "ROYALL  HARTWYND";  Mr. 
Eugene  Ormonde  as  "SiR  JOHN  HARTWYND";  Miss 
Maude  Banks  as  " QUEEN  ELIZABETH";  Miss  Minnie 
Dupree  as  "PHYLLIDA";  Mr.  Ira  Hards  as  "LORD 


Appendix  231 

FARTHORNE";  and  Mr.  William  B.  Smith  as  "SiR 
EDWARD  AYIS." 

Mr.  Woodruff  produced  the  play  later,  at  the 
Lyceum  Theatre,  New  York,  on  April  22,  1898.  On 
this  occasion  he  again  appeared  as  "  ROY  ALL";  Miss 
Mary  Shaw  was  the  " QUEEN";  and  Miss  Mary 
Young,  the  "PHYLLIDA." 

AT   THE   BARRICADE 

Was  originally  produced  at  a  benefit  performance, 
at  the  Hollis  Street  Theatre,  on  April  28,  1898.  Mr. 
William  Farnum  was  the  "LAURENT";  Mrs.  Emma 
Sheridan-Fry,  the  " YVONNE";  Miss  Carrie  Keeler 
the  "CLAIRE." 

The  play  was  later  presented  by  Mr.  Franklin 
Sargent,  at  a  Pupils'  Matinee  of  the  American 
Academy  of  Dramatic  Arts,  December  14,  1899. 

A   BIT   OF   INSTRUCTION 

Was  first  produced  by  Mr.  Henry  Woodruff,  at  a 
special  performance  at  Brattee  Hall,  Cambridge,  on 
February  25,  1898.  On  this  occasion,  Mr.  Woodruff 
appeared  as  "DESPARD";  and  Mr.  Harry  Gay  as 
"NEWBURY." 

The  play  was  given  by  Mr.  Woodruff,  at  the 
Lyceum  Theatre,  New  York,  on  April  22,  1898. 


232  Appendix 

Mr.  Woodruff  then  played  "NEWBURY,"  and  Mr. 
Eobert  Edeson  was  the  "DESPARD." 

The  play  was  used  by  Mr.  Woodruff  professionally 
for  an  extended  vaudeville  tour,  in  the  autumn  of 
1898. 

ROHAN   THE   SILENT 

Was  written  for  the  late  Alexander  Salvini ;  and  was 
accepted  by  him  to  be  used  in  connection  with  "The 
Fool's  Revenge";  which  it  was  his  intention  to 
include  in  his  repertoire,  in  his  season  of  1896-97. 
It  was  produced  by  him  at  the  Tremont  Theatre, 
Boston,  May  28,  1896.  It  is  notable  that  "ROHAN" 
was  the  last  role  ever  created  by  Mr.  Salvini.  The 
cast  on  this  occasion  was  a  memorable  one :  including 
Mr.  Salvini  as  "ROHAN";  Miss  Ida  Conquest  as 
"ISOBEL";  Mr.  Eugene  Ormonde  as  "SiR  PHILIP"; 
Mr.  George  Fawcett  as  "SiR  ROBERT;  Mr.  Joseph 
Francoeur  as  "GODWIN";  Mr.  Albert  Briinning  as 
"GoBYN";  Mr.  Franklyn  Roberts  as  "BEOWULF"; 
Mr.  Eugene  Sanger  as  "GODFREY";  Mr.  Wright 
Kramer  as  "JOHN";  and  Miss  Rachel  Noah  as  the 

"NURSE." 

"A  Song  at  the  Castle,"  "Galatea  of  the  Toy- 
Shop,"  and  "The  End  of  the  Way,"  have  not  yet 
had  production. 


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